Compulsory Butterflies
by Majesta Moniet
Summary: It was only his colors she was after. How she ended up with all of him instead is something of a story. Alec/Clary. AU.
1. Part I

**AN: **This fic was written for **Amaggiepie**, who requested some Alec/Clary lovin'. And some plot. So here is _a lot_ of plot with _some_ Alec/Clary lovin'. lol. Thanks go out to **superfan24** for doing the beta work!**  
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**Setting: **This is set in an Alternative Universe where Clary, a blind Shadowhunter, is raised alongside Jonathon.**  
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**Warnings: **sexual content

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><p><strong>Compulsory Butterflies: Part I<br>**

The house is quiet now. In the early hours of the morning, when the sun was still shy behind the mountains, there had been a flurry of activity. The sound of impatient footsteps drew Clary from sleep, and she had lied in bed contemplating the terse voices and slamming doors. The desperate pounding that went unheeded for fifteen minutes.

But now sunlight warms her face, and there is stillness. She moves out of bed and gets dressed.

**\/**

There is a door down the hall from hers that she has never bothered to enter. It is a guestroom, and like all the guestrooms in the manor, it's never been put to use. Except today is different. As Clary stands outside the door, she hears movement on the other side. Creaking floorboards, even breaths, a steady heartbeat.

There is a locking rune on the wood.

Clary knocks quietly. "Hello?"

The pacing stops.

She knocks again but the person makes no move to respond. Sighing, she draws out her stele and traces _open_.

**\/**

It's a man, a stranger, and Clary feels flushed with eagerness. His voice is low and demanding, edged with a threat.

"Who are you?"

"My name's Clary. Who are you?"

"Release me."

"What?"

There's a noisy rattling sound, the scrape of metal knocking against metal. Something heavy drags across the floor as he approaches her. A chain.

When he speaks again, his voice is scant inches from her face. "_Release me_."

**\/**

Clary skirts around him, and when he does not pursue her, she knows that he has run out of slack. His bindings will allow him no nearer. "Why have they brought you here?"

"I don't know," he says bitterly.

"Are you blind?"

"What?"

Clary stops in front of the window. She can feel the sun on her back, a silent reassurance of the outside world _just through the glass_. "That's why they keep _me_ here. Because true Shadowhunters can't be blind, and my father can't have a daughter who's not a true Shadowhunter."

"Your father—"

"Valentine. That's his name."

There is silence, and Clary can almost hear her father's name sliding down and settling like a lead weight in his gut. So she is not the only one who feels this way.

The man's angry. "Where are we? What is this place?"

"Home."

**\/**

Clary is aware of her brother's presence in the room long before he speaks. "Oh good. So the two of you have already met."

"Sebastian." The man spits the name like a curse.

Her brother's humorless laugh is loud in the small space. "That's right. You still think I'm that push-over Verlac fool. You really were in that godforsaken dungeon for a long time, weren't you? I had almost forgotten you were down there myself."

"Jonathon,"—Clary steps forward—"what's going on?"

Jonathon crosses to her, his steps noiseless. He takes her hand and brushes his lips across the tops of her knuckles in a familiar gesture of intimacy that she's learned not to flinch away from. "Little sister," he says, "I've brought you some company."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought of you being alone here all of the time while Father and I are gone, and I knew that you must get lonely. So I had him brought here for you."

Clary stays cautiously silent. He hasn't finished.

"You're not a girl anymore, and you need the appropriate companions. Of course I didn't bring you just anyone. He's a Lightwood. An old Shadowhunter family from respectable stock. Good blood. Not as desirable as a Morgenstern, of course, but the closest I could get. In case your meetings prove…fertile."

Realization hits like a slap in the face, and she jerks her hand from his grip. "You mean you brought him here to…" She can't bring herself to finish the sentence. Her face burns. "That's disgusting," she hisses.

Jonathon's voice turns coldly snide. "I thought I was being thoughtful. Don't you want to be made a woman, Clary? You think anyone would _want_ to lie with a defected Shadowhunter?"

She bites her tongue until she tastes blood.

His mouth brushes the curve of her ear. "You may be a poor excuse of a Nephilim, but you're a Morgenstern, and some day you will do your duty to make sure that that name is revered for generations."

She barely hears him over the pounding of her heart.

His attention turns toward the man, who has said nothing. "If you do anything to harm her, I'll drag that little brother of yours out of his cell and have him chopped into pieces as fuel for your fireplace."

He kisses the side of Clary's head, slips a key into her hand, and then leaves the room.

**\/**

Her pride and mortification keep her away for three days. But on the fourth morning, her curiosity gets the better of her and she is back down the hall. She did not lock the door when she last left, so after a brief warning knock, she enters the room. The man must have been sitting on the bed because she hears the chain jostle as he gets to his feet.

"I'm not sleeping with you," he says.

"I'm glad we have that understanding."

"What do you want?"

"Have you been fed?" She already knows the answer. She'd heard Anna—the housekeeper—bring him a tray of food three times a day. But Clary doesn't want him to know that she's been listening.

"Yes," he answers reluctantly.

"And you've been eating."

"I'll get weak if I don't."

"What's your name?"

"Alec."

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen." He sits back down on the bed. "Maybe nineteen."

"You don't know?"

"What's the date?"

"June 21st."

"Then I'm nineteen."

"I'm sixteen," she says, even though he doesn't ask. "I'll be seventeen in a couple of months."

He says nothing.

"Why does Jonathon have you and your brother?"

Clary may be blind, but she can tell when someone is staring at her, and right now she's feels Alec's piercing gaze like the prick of a needle against her skin. "For the same reason he's captured and killed a hundred other Shadowhunters."

Dull nails bite into her palms. The room feels colder. She has to swallow back the lump in her throat in order to force her voice through. "And why's that?"

He moves his arms, causing the chain to rattle. "You really have no idea, do you?"

"Tell me."

**\/**

She doesn't believe him. Not everything he says, anyway.

She can believe that her father would say those things, that he would even _want _those things—to create a more perfect Shadowhunter race by weeding out the weak and claiming what he believed to be the rightful power of every Nephilim. Everything he has ever taught her speaks to that very ideology. His hatred for the Clave and their corruption underlies nearly everything he does.

But stealing the Mortal Instruments? Using demons and dark magic to slaughter Shadowhunters by the dozens? Killing children? Her father is a cold man but he is not needlessly cruel—he is not Jonathon. She cannot believe that the man who tucked her into bed as a child and spent long hours teaching her to read fairytales in Braille could kill so heartlessly.

Clary rolls over in the grass. She weaves her hands through the soft blades—which she's been told are 'green'—and mindlessly pulls up clumps to toss aside.

Over the last year, her father has spent less and less time at home. He did not come home once last July or August, and now there are usually weeks between his visits. Jonathon, too, is gone more often than he is here. Something changed. She knows that.

But she refuses to believe that her nightmares are coming to life.

**\/**

"Tell me more."

She holds out the key that Jonathon gave her. There had been no conditions on using it, and Jonathon left home the same day he arrived, so there is no one to stop her.

The man—Alec—takes the key quickly, afraid she will change her mind. A few moments later a shackle hits the wooden floor. He kicks it across the room.

"I want to know more about what's happening," she says.

"Fine. But only if you answer my questions first."

Clary hesitates. "Fine."

"The place where they were keeping me and where they're keeping my brother. Where is it?"

"I don't know."

"You live here?"

"Yes."

"And Jonathon lives here."

"Sometimes."

That causes Alec to pause. "He's not here now?"

"No."

"And Valentine?"

"He hasn't been home in a couple of weeks."

"So it's just you and the housekeeper."

"And the cook and the gardener. I know what you're thinking, and it won't work. There are wards and—"

"Have you ever left?"

Clary bites the inside of her lip and schools her voice into a tone of indifference. "No."

She does not like the silence that follows. He is contemplating her and her situation, imagining that he can see her life for what it is just from that single fact. He is placing her in a box the way her father has placed her in this house and the way Jonathon has placed him in this room.

Talking with a stranger is not what she thought it would be.

**\/**

There are no chairs. She sits on the bed several feet from him, and as the mattress shifts beneath her weight, she is stiff with tension.

"Why would I lie to you?" he asks.

"Because you're part of the Clave."

He sighs in frustration. "So are you. All Shadowhunters are. It's the Covenant."

She shakes her head. "I've sworn no loyalty to the Clave."

"Valentine's wrong about us, you know." He moves, turning toward her. "The Clave isn't perfect, but it's not evil. We _want_ to do good."

"You're wrong."

"How do you know? I'm the first Shadowhunter you've met who's not Valentine or Jonathon."

"Because the Clave killed my mother."

"What?"

"They're the reason that she died. She—"

"You mean Jocelyn?"

Clary shoots to her feet. "How do you know her name?"

"Because she isn't dead."

**\/**

Slamming the door behind her, Clary drops to her knees beside her bed. Beneath it is a heavy chest that she drags out into the open and unlocks with trembling fingers. She has memorized its contents and does not have to dig for the rigid square of paper tucked down one of the sides. Clasping it, she falls back onto her haunches.

It is a photograph of her mother. A picture. An image. Something that Clary can only understand in the most abstract of terms. Somehow the essence of her mother is contained here on this glossy sheet, preserved for an eternity. More than once Clary has held it, traced her fingers over the smooth surface and conjured up what Jocelyn would be like if she were more than a photo. Kind, patient, someone who could make her father smile—the woman who gave birth to her and then died less than a month later during a raid carried out by the Clave.

Or so Clary had been told.

"_Jocelyn is alive. Valentine is keeping her somewhere. She escaped with the Mortal Cup after you were born, but he found her again about a year ago…"_

Escaped. Left. Ran away. Abandoned.

Clary's mother did not die. Clary does not have a mother.

She tears the photograph until the pieces are too small to hold onto.

**\/**

"These are the gardens."

She's not sure why she's brought him here. She doesn't particularly like the gardens, although she enjoys being outside where the world feels bigger. Usually she's quite capable of navigating the grounds on her own (she's had 16 years to memorize every hill, step, and creek), but she's never had to lead someone before, so she brings her long cane with her. She hates using it, but she'd rather not risk walking into a tree because she's distracted by Alec.

He is the one who requested that they go outside. He wanted to stretch his legs, and after being cooped up in a bedroom for two weeks and a prison cell for however long before that, she can understand his desire get out, to at least pretend he is free to move about as he pleases. She purposely ignores any ulterior motives he may have.

"They're nice," he says grudgingly, and Clary knows that they are more than nice. She's been told they're the most beautifully designed gardens in Idris. They smell nice enough.

"Let's find shade."

**\/**

There is a big tree with drooping branches by the lake. They stop here and sit where the ground is cool. After fifteen minutes of listening to the wind shake the leaves and the insects buzz around the water, Clary finds she cannot pretend she is alone.

"What's New York like?"

At first he doesn't say anything, and she thinks that he won't answer. But just as she's resigned herself to an afternoon of repressed curiosity, she hears him mumble, "Big. Noisy. Full of Mundanes."

"Sounds exciting." It sounds like the opposite of here.

"There's always something to kill," he says as if quoting something or someone famous.

"We don't get many demons. Or Mundanes." She regrets saying this because it makes her feel even less like a Shadowhunter than before. Nephilim were created to protect ordinary humans from demons, and she's never even seen a Mundane, and the closest she's ever come to a demon was hearing the screams of one that Jonathon tortured for three days straight.

Clary stands and steps out of her sandals. When she undoes the snap of her shorts, Alec's voice rises with something akin to alarm. "What are you doing?"

"Going swimming."

She slides her shorts down to her ankles and then kicks them away. Her tank top quickly joins them in the grass. It is seven steps to the water's edge, and Clary takes them carefully to avoid any surprises. Physically, Alec does not follow her, but his presence is there with her in the water, something that keeps her back straight and her toes curled. She hums and he does not leave.

**\/**

It's a dreary day, but the tapping of rain against the library windows and the scratch of Alec's pencil across paper is soothing. She sits beside him with her book so that she can hear it better. She's not sure what he's writing, only that he's already torn up two of his previous attempts.

A few minutes pass and he sets the pencil down. There is no sound of shredding paper, so Clary assumes that this time he is satisfied with what he produces.

Clary closes her book. "Who's your _parabatai_?"

"What makes you think I have one?"

"You have the rune." She lifts a hand to his right shoulder, and even through the thin cotton of his shirt, she can sense the presence of the powerful Mark, feel the texture of its lines as if they were raised on his skin.

"How—"

"I've always had an affinity for runes. Seeing them, drawing them, creating them. My father says it's a gift from the Angel."

"You can create runes?" he asks, incredulous.

"Maybe 'create' isn't the right word," she muses. "I draw runes that no one has ever drawn before."

"Like what?"

One comes easily to the forefront of her mind like a bubble rising to the surface of water. It's the same rune that's been quietly asserting itself ever since that first day she and Alec met. Its persistence, she thinks, must mean something.

Having drawn out her stele, Clary slides her hand from his shoulder to the hollow of his elbow, holding his arm still against the table. There's a brief, surprised silence when Alec doesn't pull away. Clearing her throat she gently presses the tip of the stele to the skin of his forearm and allows the Mark to unfold. It sweeps down, lifts, strikes across in a bold line, and curls into a circle cradled by two curves. When it feels complete, she pulls back, satisfied that it was successful.

"What does it mean?"

"Fearless."

**\/**

"You love him. Jace."

"He's a brother to me."

"But you love him more than that. I can hear it in your voice."

"I…I used to think that I did."

"And now?"

"And now I'm not sure what love really is."

He touches the Mark on his arm.

"I guess it works."

**\/**

When Clary wakes up, she dresses in the clothes that have been laid out for her the night before. She brushes her hair, braids it, and ties it off with a band from the top drawer of her dresser. She brushes her teeth, washes her face, steps into her shoes. But when she goes to pick up her stele from the nightstand, her fingers close around air.

Frowning, Clary bends down and checks the floor in case it had fallen off during the night. After coming up empty, she runs her hands over the entirety of the bedside table until she find her stele placed on the far edge, several inches from where she set it down and handle facing the wrong direction.

Snatching up the stele, Clary leaves her room and strides angrily down the hall. Not pausing to knock, she throws open Alec's door and marches inside amidst his sound of protest. "How dare you?" she seethes.

"What—"

"You snuck into my room while I was sleeping and took my stele!"

"I—"

"You think I'm stupid? Because I can't see? Because I can't fight like you, or my father, or my brother? Well, I'm not. You wrote a fire message yesterday and sent it last night using my stele, which you _stole _from my room."

"What did you expect, Clary?" Alec retorts, just as heated and just as indignant. "I'm your _prisoner_, and if you think I'm just going to sit tight in this dressed-up cell and entertain you while my family—"

"News flash, Alec!" She steps close enough to feel the heat rising off his body. "I'm not the one keeping you here. If you want to leave, I'm not going to stop you. Go ahead and give it a shot. Don't let the wards burn your ass on the way out."

Clary leaves, slamming the door shut behind her.

**\/**

Knocking wakes Clary up in the middle of the night. Anna, the housekeeper, is at her door sounding very worried and slightly hysterical. She explains that Alec tried leaving the property and got caught in the wards. He is injured badly, and Anna is worried that the treatment she can give him will not be sufficient. Perhaps Clary's runes will help if she is so inclined to come and offer assistance.

All of this Clary takes in with her dreams still lingering around the edges of her consciousness. What she _does _process is that Alec might be fatally injured and she is the only person capable of drawing an _iratze_. Stele in hand, she steps out into the hallway and follows Anna to Alec's door. By the time she enters the room, her lethargy is beginning to fade, and her mind sharpens to the point that she is able to recall the events of yesterday, the hostility he showed her and the resentment she felt.

But all burgeoning anger vanishes as the odor of burnt flesh overwhelms her. The gardener, who is standing somewhere off to the right, quickly takes his leave now that Anna and Clary are here to handle the situation. He mumbles something about 'accounting for stupidity' on his way out the door.

Sighing, Clary crosses the bed and delicately sits on the edge so as to not to upset any of Alec's injuries. His breathing is labored and raspy, but he doesn't say anything, and she thinks he might be unconscious. "What wrong with him?"

"The burns mostly," Anna supplies quickly. "A couple of broken bones from getting knocked about, but I stitched up the wound on his head. It's stopped bleeding."

His body puts off heat like a furnace as Clary leans over him. "Show me where I can place a rune."

**\/**

Anna brings a padded, high back chair into Alec's room, and Clary falls asleep there, listening to the older woman tut and mutter under her breath while applying salve to Alec's burns. When she wakes up, Anna is gone and birds are singing outside. Clary's body aches from sleeping in such an unnatural position.

But Alec is alive. His breathing is deep and even. The sedation rune—one of several Marks that she gave him—has not yet worn off. It's good that he is sleeping. The pain would be terrible if he weren't.

She applies a fresh _iratze_ and cooling rune to soothe the burns.

It will be a while before he is healed.

**\/**

Two days later, Jonathon returns home. He's in a good mood, and Clary remembers what Alec told her about him and their father. Is this what killing does for him? Bring him satisfaction and peace of mind?

He stands over Alec's sick bed and chuckles. "I imagine he won't be trying that again."

"He almost died."

"Almost." He sounds equally parts amused and disappointed.

"You've been killing Shadowhunters. You and Father."

"We've been killing traitors," he corrects her. "Those who have turned against their own kind." Her disapproval must show, but the next moment he is at her side, hand cupping her cheek and raising her face toward his. "You wouldn't understand, Clary. You've lived such a sheltered life. You have no idea what kind of evil there is in the world."

She tries moving away, but his grip on her only tightens.

"Still just a girl?" he asks.

"Go to hell."

He laughs and releases her. "If he can't do the job, I'll find someone who can."

**\/**

"How long have I been out?"

"Three days."

"It still hurts."

"I warned you."

"Yeah. You did. I think…I think I'm going back to sleep…"

**\/**

The burns have finally begun to fade. Due to the multitude of his injuries, the broken leg and wrist are taking longer to heal than usual, even though Clary draws a fresh _iratze_ every morning and every night. He's been weaned off the anesthesia so he's fully alert and coherent when he's awake.

He sleeps a lot. But on the occasions that he's awake when Clary checks in, they don't speak aside from the necessary exchanges about his wellbeing.

_How do you feel?_

_Better._

_Do you need more salve?_

_No._

_Does this hurt?_

_A little._

_Do you need anything?_

_No._

_I'll be back later._

_Thank you._

His responses are brief but not dismissive. He is quiet in a way that suggests contemplation. He's disappeared inside his head the way she so often disappears into hers. Some thought—or some tangle of thoughts— is being worked out, and anything else happening around him is just a distraction.

Clary always leaves the room frowning.

**\/**

"It's nice out today."

The quiet comment startles Clary into stubbing her toe against the leg of the chair. She swears under her breath. "Is it?"

"Yeah."

Foot still smarting, she half-hobbles to the window, unlocks it, and pushes it open. Immediately, a mild gust of air blows back her hair. Sun warms the skin of her forearms. "It is," she agrees.

Tempted by his unprecedented verbosity and the pleasant breeze, Clary asks if he would mind her staying here to read by the open window. "There won't be any sunlight in my room."

"Sure."

She leaves and returns with the book that she started the day before. It's a love story, the sort of "unproductive nonsense" her father only barely tolerates as an indulgence. Having dragged the armchair as close as to the window as she can get, Clary climbs into it and finds the bookmarked page in her novel. The words are familiar beneath her fingers—she's read this one at least half a dozen times—and she's able to fall into them so completely that she forgets she's not alone.

"What are you reading?

Her fingers still. "It's a romance. About an old woman whose lost all her memories, and her husband who spends every day retelling her the story of how they fell in love. Very sappy."

"But you like it."

"Yes. There's something beautiful about the single mindedness with which they pursue their feelings. It must be nice to feel that way about someone. Or anything. It gives you a sort of purpose."

"You don't think you have a purpose?"

She closes the book. "Is the sky very blue today?"

"Yes."

**\/**

"And what color is this flower?"

"Bluish purple."

"Like a bruise?"

"No. Like a flower."

Clary rolls her eyes but has to hide a smile. He's been a good sport. Mostly.

"And this one?"

"Yellow."

She rubs the silky petal between her thumb and forefinger. Warm-colored like the sun.

"And what about this—"

"I thought you were going to read."

"I am." She turns away from the flowers to sit facing him on the grass. She pulls the book—which somehow ended up beneath his crutches—onto her lap. "Which part were we at?"

"They were about to…have sex in that old house."

"Oh, right." Of course, she knew exactly where they had left off, but she's become fond of how squeamish Alec can be about little things. "The sex. Let's get to it."

**\/**

There is only a small selection of Braille books in the library. Sometimes when her father comes home after being away for a long time, he will have a new one for Clary to read. But nothing new has been added in months, and there are hundreds of print books that Clary has never been able to read on her own. So when she finishes reading aloud the romance novel, Alec agrees to read her something she hasn't heard before.

He picks something safe, a history on the Silent Brothers, but an hour in they're both close to falling asleep. Clary asks Alec to tell her about his life instead.

At first he's hesitant. "There's not much to tell." But slowly bits and pieces of information work their way free, and once he gets going, the words spill forward like water breaking through a damn. She already knew he was from the New York Institute, but he tells about the others who lived there with him—his family, his _parabatai_, his tutor. He paints such a distinct picture of Jace that she can imagine him being there in the room with them.

"You miss your family," Clary says after he peters out and they're sitting in reflective silence.

"Of course I do."

"You'll see them again." She doesn't know why she says it; it's reflex more than anything. Later she'll look back and realize that she was trying to comfort him. But now the words hang in the air like a glass ball held high above the ground.

After a brief silence, Alec says, "I could. If you helped me find a way around the wards."

"I…"

"I haven't seen any warlocks around here, so something is keeping them in place, something that can be disabled. Like the way Jonathon disabled the ones surrounding Alicante."

He's right, of course. She once heard her father say something about it to Jonathon when neither of them thought she could hear. With some investigating, she could probably find out more. So it would be _possible_…

Clary hesitates. "If you got out, would you try to kill him? Jonathon. And my father?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation. "If I encountered them, I would do my duty as a Shadowhunter to protect this world."

She sags back into the seat. "Then I can't help you."

"Why would you want to protect them?" Alec's voice is frustrated and closer than it had been a moment ago. "Jonathon's _evil_. He's trying to force you, his own sister, into sleeping with someone just to prove that he can. How can you not hate him?"

She shakes her head. "Just because you hate someone doesn't mean that you want them dead. He's my brother. Would you kill Max or Jace?"

"They would never murder innocent people."

"Well, before you got here, I never thought my father and brother would either. I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

As she stands, Alec's hand catches her wrist. It's the first time he's ever touched her. "You don't think that they need to be stopped?"

"Yes." She knows that what her family is doing is wrong, and that they can't be allowed to destroy an entire race and break the Covenant. "But not by me. They're all I have."

**\/**

Clary hands Alec the scissors. "What do you want them for?"

"To cut my hair. It's never been this long."

"I think it looks fine."

He smiles. She can tell.

**\/**

Despite their many differences, Alec and her brother have very similar hands. Wide palms with calluses across the top. Long, slender fingers with bony knuckles. Warm, scarred skin. A firm grip.

That morning Alec told her there is something he wants to show her. He leads her from the house through the grass. They weave around the small grove of trees and cross the creek that runs through the east end of the property. She counts until she can no longer hear the water, and then they are climbing a small hill. This is where Alec stops.

She knows exactly where they are. Although she doesn't come this way often, she's explored every crevice of this land. So she knows that just in front of them is a steep rock incline formed by natural boulders. She does not know how high it reaches, although when she was little, she imagined it must touch the sky.

"Is this it?" she asks.

She can feel him hesitate. Even his grip on her hand slackens. "No. We need to climb up. There's a narrow path worn through rock so we can practically walk for most of it. But I'll have to help you."

"How high?"

"About fifty feet to the top."

Fifty feet. Clary was a few inches over five feet tall. Her father, who often seemed like a giant, wasn't even six and half feet. The distance from her bedroom window to the ground was about 35 feet. When she had been a curious child, Valentine told her that if she were to climb out of that window, the fall would kill her.

She steps forward and presses her hand to the stone. It feels swollen with the heat of the sun. Alec's skin is cool and damp in comparison. "Okay. Show me."

**\/**

The going is slow, and Clary experiences more frustration than she's accustomed to as Alec directs her where to place her feet and, sometimes, her hands. This is a bit of land unconquered by man, and the grooves that water has whittled into the stone are not easily navigated. More than once, a miscalculated step sends her swaying backwards but Alec pays close enough attention to steady her in time.

By the time they reach the summit, Clary is so relieved to feel the ground even out, that she strides carelessly forward until Alec grabs her arm.

"Careful," he says anxiously. Clary goes still. "There's not much space to move around."

He draws her back even as the realization begins to settle over her. They are very high off the ground in small area—a precipice—with no walls or fences to keep them from falling. Slowly, a smile curls Clary's lips, and she raises her arms straight out on either side. She tilts her face back, baring it to the brunt of the sunlight. The wind whipping around her feels dangerous.

"I've never been up here before," she says.

"That's what I guessed. Here,"—Alec gently turns her in a different direction—"I want to show you something."

One of his hands presses against her hip as he steps behind her. His chest pressed against her back brings his heart close to her ear, so that she can easily hear the slow, even beat of it. He takes her right hand in his and folds her fingers down one by one until just the index finger remains, pointing upwards. He guides her hand forward, directing it toward something in front of them.

"There," he says, "is Alicante."

"What do you mean?"

"It's there in the distance. Against the horizon. It's miles away, but you can just see the glass spires catching the light."

She feels breathless. "It can't be. It can't be _right there_."

Alicante has always been something of a mythic place to Clary. Of course she knew that it was real—her father trained there as a boy—but it has always been some unattainable place a world away, as lost to her as Atlantis or the Garden of Eden. To think that this entire time it's been here, that if she had the sense of sight, she could be a witness to the Glass City _right now_.

Her arm is too heavy. When Alec releases her, it falls limply to her side. "What color is it?"

He lowers his head so say something, and his lips brush her ear. The touch is as light as a butterfly landing and completely accidental, but she feels it all the same. The wind picks up. She cannot hear him.

**\/**

She did not use to be such a light sleeper. But something about having another person in the house has made her more sensitive to the sounds of night.

Clary pads down the hall barefooted and stops outside Alec's door. She listens until she hears the low moan that pulled her from her sleep. If it weren't for her heightened hearing rune—one of the many permanent runes she had taken the liberty to draw herself—she would not have heard his distress from her own room. The walls of the house are old and thick. But Clary hears many things that others do not, and this is not the first time it's put her in the position to do something she wouldn't have done otherwise.

Clary stands indecisive for several moments before opening the door and poking her head inside.

**\/**

"Alec?"

He does not respond, but continues tossing and turning on the bed. He mumbles something incoherent and makes that pained sound again.

"Alec."

The springs of the mattress creak in distress. Clary enters the room and stops just shy of the bed. She reaches out to touch him but has to search the sheets for his arm. He's rolled to the far the side.

"Alec—"

When she touches him, his entire body jerks and Clary cries out in surprise when he shoots up, seizing her shoulders. "Who—"

"It's me. It's Clary."

He's trembling but let's her go immediately. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I surprised you." She sits on the edge of the bed. "You were having a bad dream. I could hear you."

He slides back to sit against the headboard. "Yeah," he says quietly.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I don't think I do."

"Then we can talk about something else."

**\/**

"No way."

"It's true."

"No one is _that_ bad at cooking."

"Isabelle is."

"Did the cat die?"

"No. Church is still around. He's always been around, actually."

Clary shakes her head. She's crossed her legs beneath her to help keep her bare feet warm, and she's stolen one of the blankets to wrap around her shoulders. Listening to Alec speak about his family has become one of her favorite things to do. She likes how animated his voice gets. "Why does she cook if she's so bad at it?"

"Isabelle," Alec says her name in a fond way Jonathon has never said Clary's, "always feels the need to impress. From the way she dresses to the way she fights. Cooking is one of her few failed attempts."

"Is she beautiful?"

There's a brief pause that Clary has learned to interpret as a shrug. "Yeah, I guess she is. Enough people seem to think so."

"How do you decide whether something is beautiful?"

"Physically, you mean?" He sounds puzzled.

"Yes. How do you tell?"

"You just…_know_. It's different for each person. Not everyone finds the same things beautiful."

"Is it a feeling you get?"

"It's more than a feeling." He sighs. "It's like a fact. It's like noticing that something is small, or oddly-shaped, or well-made. Something can be beautiful even if you're the only one who thinks so."

"Am I beautiful?"

Too late, Clary realizes she probably shouldn't have asked. There are several moments of silence until—

"Yes," he says finally.

Clary feels warm. Suddenly she is very curious about how Alec perceives her, even though she knows she will not fully comprehend what he tells her. Questions she's never really cared to have answered before unexpectedly overwhelm her. "What color are my eyes?"

"Green."

_Green_. Grass is green. Things that grow are green. Gardens. Nature. Life.

"My hair?"

"Red."

Fire. Lips. Blood. Passion.

Clary imagines how a person with eyes of leaves and hair of flames must look, and she is left with a euphoric sense of vitality that makes her hands restless. She caresses her face, half-expecting to feel blades of grass hot as coals. But it is only her, the same skin she's always worn. She fingers a lock of her hair and thinks, _Red_.

"And those are good colors?"

"For you, yes."

Unthinkingly, Clary rises onto her knees and reaches out until the tips of her fingers touch the cotton of his shirt. She finds the collar and then traces his neck to his face, resting her thumbs right beneath either of his eyes. "What color are yours?"

His breath climbs her wrists. "Blue."

"Like the sky?"

"Darker."

The night is dark. Eyes like the night sky. "What color is your hair?"

It's thick and soft between her fingers as they comb through it, the strands so much shorter than her own. Alec makes a sound she barely catches.

"What was that?"

"Dark brown," he says louder.

He is cool earth, the kind deep below the surface that's rich and allows things to grow. Dark earth on a dark night.

She smiles. "I can see you."

And he is the first person she has _ever_ seen. For once, colors are more than that one thing she will never understand. When she thinks about Alec's eyes being deep blue, it means something—they are patches of sky she actually has a chance of reaching. And when he looks at her, sky meets soft fire, burning trees that never die. This is a painless heat.

She has been touching him for too long.

But as she moves to sit back on her heels, he deftly catches her wrists. Clary freezes, keenly aware of how close they are. In the silence, she can hear his heart beating faster and realizes with a start that hers has quickened as well. She's caught leaning partially toward him and unwilling to pull away. The blanket slides from her shoulders to the bed.

Slowly, he draws her in.

First it is their noses that touch, followed by their foreheads, and then a chin to cheek. When their lips finally find their way to each other, it as if they have met like this before. She eases forward into the kiss, and Alec guides her with gentle caresses until she is straddling his legs and they're chest-to-chest, her arms having nowhere to go but around his neck. She likes this crowded feeling, their bodies pack tightly together, thighs wedged around hips and lips tucked beneath teeth because this is the only good space.

**\/**

Her hands smooth over his broad, naked shoulders Marked with black.

Balance. Strength. _Parabatai_.

His chest is contoured with muscle and more curving lines.

Speed. Soundlessness. Keen Sight.

His hands take the hem of her shirt up over her head, and soon he is finding all of their runes that match. He traces them distractedly, his attention frayed by the heat of her mouth on his neck. When she breaks skin, he groans and rolls them over until Clary is on her back beneath him.

**\/**

Alec's thumb brushes over her nipple until it is stiff. "Pink," he says, and Clary absently touches her mouth, which is also pink. And swollen, now. Soft and raw.

Those lips part suddenly when a tongue strikes out against that taught nipple. It's followed closely by the insistent tug of Alec's own lips, and this joining of like things is _good, good, good_ in a way that has Clary making sounds she's not heard before—senseless, breathless things that are not entirely absent of meaning.

His hand slides down over her belly and her runes and then lower still. He is touching, deep hidden parts of her. "Pink."

Clary likes the color pink.

**\/**

There are tears—two of them—but they are colorless, and Clary quickly forgets them. They haven't dried on the pillow before something more significant is happening. She can feel Alec inside of her. As his fingers stroke her hip, the rest of him is moving in a much more novel way. He recedes and then presses forward as deep as her body will take him in. Clary keeps still because it doesn't feel good yet, but it's getting better, and she doesn't want to mess this up.

As she relaxes, Alec's hesitant movements smooth out into something more consistent, a timed rocking that she meets with lifted hips. Palms flat on the backs of his shoulder blades, Clary records every shallow breath, every quickening of the heart, the moment when he stops breathing completely, and the accompanying shudder that draws his back taught like the string of a hunting bow.

And then the pinks, and the reds, and the bright whites seep away, and Alec drops down beside her, searching for breath and pulling her towards him. She lies in his dark earth colors, lets their coolness wash over her like something soothing.

She knows she is smiling, and that he can see, but she presses it to his skin anyway.

**\/**

"Will we both fit?"

Alec makes an indelicate noise like a snort. "Four of us would fit in here."

"Are you suggesting that we invite the cook and housekeeper to join us?"

"I've seen the housekeeper. Take my word for it that we're better off alone."

Holding his arm for support, Clary steps after him into the tub. The tap is still running, stirring the hot water around her calves. Alec sits and then helps guide her down to sit between his legs. She brushes her hair to one side, and he takes it as an invitation to drop a kiss on her exposed shoulder. It's strange being like this with someone, but she likes it and relaxes back against him.

"The housekeeper…She'll tell Jonathon about the blood on the sheets."

He shakes his head. "This had nothing to do with him."

"I know," she said quickly, "but he won't see it that way."

"I don't care how he sees it."

"I do," she says after a long silence. "I don't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I've…_submitted_ to him. I don't want him to think it was his choice."

"I don't think he wanted it to happen this way." He reaches for a cup, fills it with water, and tells her to close her eyes. Warm water soaks her hair and trickles down behind her ears. "He wanted to humiliate us. He wanted us both to feel used and degraded."

"But, you see, that could be even worse. If he knew that I'd done it willingly and that I care about you, he won't let us stay like this. To love is to destroy," she recites and then blushes when she realized what that might imply. "Having…feelings…is a weakness, and he'll use that against us. He might even lock you back up again."

Alec pours of a cupful of water over his own head, and Clary lathers her hands with the bottle of shampoo he gives her. Reaching back, she works her fingers through his hair, drawing her nails in circles against his scalp. Alec shivers. "Then we'll leave."

"Hm?"

"We'll get out of here before he comes back."

"Alec…"

"You agreed that that there has to be a way around the wards."

"Yes." She remembers the discussion from weeks ago, when she told him that she wouldn't help him get out. She had been so certain then. But now she thinks about her brother and father coming home to find her actually enjoying the company of someone who hates them and everything they stand for. How long would it be before they realize she has begun thinking the way Alec has? They would not let him stay.

_Would they even let him live?_

The thought makes her stomach clench. If they have killed other Shadowhunter who have stood against him, what would they do to Alec when he is no longer "useful"?

Alec's soapy hands start on her hair. "Just think—"

"I can get you out," she says. "I have an idea of what keeps the wards in place. And there have to be plans for them somewhere around here."

"You mean 'us,'" he says. "We'll both get out."

"I can't come with you."

His fingers still on the base of her neck. "Yes, you can. They'll know you helped me escape."

"They won't hurt me," she says but doesn't completely believe it.

"I'm not leaving without you."

"Your family needs you."

His hands drop into the water. There's shampoo in Clary's eye, and she rubs it away. Finding the discarded cup, she fills it and rinses her hair until it's heavy and slick against her back.

Alec's fingers catch her chin and turn her face back toward him. "Come with me."

When she doesn't say anything, he kisses her softly. It's more imploring than any of the other kisses he's given her tonight.

"You can meet them." He says without pulling back. "You can go to Alicante, and New York, and anywhere else you've ever wanted to go. You don't have to help us fight if you don't want to."

Clary feels that the bathwater has gone very still and that Alec's words are the only thing moving. "I don't know how."

"I'll help you."

"Why?"

His hands find her hers beneath the water and link with them, palm against palm. He brings their joined right hands to his mouth, kisses her rune—the one Mark all Shadowhunters bear—and draws her firmly against him. They lie like this until the water has gone cold, and then together they emerge.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thank you for reading. And I hope you don't regret taking a chance on rare!pair. :)

Maggie, if you don't like it, lie to me and say that you do. lol.


	2. Part II

******AN:** SURPRISE! The story isn't really over. After some lovely encouragement on the part of my readers and some insistent nagging on the part of the characters, I have decided to undergo the task of making this a multi-part story. Tah dah! So here is part two. And part three is already underway. Not sure how long this fic will end up being, so we'll just have to find out together.

Thank you, Maggie and Rachel, for giving me feedback and correcting my many mistakes. You ladies are awesome!

* * *

><p><strong>Compulsory Butterflies: Part II<br>**

Alec wakes to the brush of fingertips along his arm. Clary leans over him, a long braid falling over one shoulder. He touches her wrist to let her know he's coherent.

"It's time," she says quietly.

"We're leaving now?"

She nods and then retreats so that he has enough space to push back the covers and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He pauses there, feet on the floor and heart quickening in his chest. This is not a dream, he realizes.

"Here." Clary hands him an unzipped canvas bag. Inside there is Shadowhunter gear, a seraph blade, dagger, witchlight and stele. A matching bag clings to Clary's back, snug against her shoulder blades. "We should hurry. I'm not sure how long the sleeping drought will last."

He doesn't need further prompting. Quickly, he changes out of his sweatpants and into the protective gear. The fit isn't perfect, but it's close enough. Alec knows it must have belonged to Jonathan, but he doesn't have time to linger on the fact. After lacing up the boots, he tosses a change of clothes into the bag as well. Clary is standing at the foot of the bed, clutching her stele in one hand. Her other hand is trembling at her side.

Alec shoulders the bag so he can take her face between his palms. Her skin is warm, and it reminds him of their first time. He was nervous then, too. And just as certain that they were doing the right thing.

"Thank you." He brushes his lips across hers. "Thank you."

**\ /**

She's a half-step ahead and leading him by the hand through the grass that slopes away from the east wing of the house. Here, in the countryside of Idris, the nights are black as pitch. But Clary has no use for a rune stone. They move from the grass and into the trees, which grow closer and closer together the farther they walk. And then she stops.

She releases his hand and raises her own out in front of her, searching the air. Fingers outstretched, she tentatively begins inching forward into the space between two trees. It's the first time she's actually _looked_ blind.

This is it, he realizes. If the wards aren't actually down…

The memory of the pain after his last failed attempt is nearly as intense as the pain itself.

Clary takes a cautious step forward. Then another. And another. Finally she stops. Her shoulders drop as she turns toward him. "It worked."

She doesn't sound pleased. She doesn't sound disappointed. She sounds lost. This is the farthest she's ever been from home.

Stepping to her side, he reclaims her hand and takes the lead. Together they keep moving east.

**\ /**

It's stupid. There's no reason to be self-conscious. He's touched her, kissed her, had sex with her—multiple times. So sleeping beside her shouldn't be a big deal, even if it will be the first time. But somehow he's stuck. He stands holding the thinly padded pallet she handed him while she unrolls her own and spreads it across the ground.

There was no gear at the house that would fit her, so she's wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a jacket tied around her hips. She looks different. Or maybe it's just the place. Out here in the wild woods she seems even less like a Morgenstern.

"Is something wrong?" Her hands roam over the sleeping pallet, checking for bumps and creases. He's gotten used to her not looking at him when she speaks.

"No. I'm just tired."

"You should come and lie down. The ground's pretty even."

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until it leaves him in a rush. She's silent as he lays his bedding out next to hers. As soon as he's on his back, she crawls over and stretches out beside him, an arm tucked around his waist.

It is only then, in the silence that follows, that Alec thinks of the house they left half-empty. They've been gone a day, and by now Valentine has likely been informed of their escape. Alec thinks of the wards that had been in place long before he ever arrived and the meaning of a father's constant absence.

Sleep doesn't come easily, but it comes.

**\ /**

"And you're sure this is all there was?"

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I grabbed whatever I could get my hands on. But it's all paper to me. I couldn't tell which were maps, receipts, or just notes. Anyway, I doubt my father leaves important things lying around his study—even if he doesn't think I can get inside."

"And there was _nothing_ else?"

"I don't know, Alec. I _told_ you; I took whatever I came across, and I tried to search the entire place. But I can't promise there wasn't something that I missed."

"You should have had me help you."

"We were sort of pressed for time. The wards—"

"There could have been something important. Battle plans, rosters, something indicating where they keep prisoners like my brother."

"That's why I took all of these!"

"You should have told me Valentine kept things in the house! We could have searched it sooner; we could have found something useful. None of _this_ is going to help us."

"I didn't think—"

"Of course you didn't! You don't understand how serious any of this is! My family's _lives_ are at stake, and I'm not going to lose them. This is all just your big chance to get out, but for everyone else it's about fighting for something we—what are you doing?"

Clary pulls her arms through the straps of her backpack and lets it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. One hand stretched out in front of her and the other maneuvering her cane, she begins to walk away.

Alec grits his teeth. "Where are you going? We need to keep moving before it gets dark."

"I don't feel like holding your hand right now."

**\ /**

Evening begins to creep in. Alec is caught looking back and forth between the bruising sky and the trees Clary disappeared through more than an hour ago. He has felt uneasy ever since losing sight of her, and now he is beyond restless. Soon it will be too dark to go looking for her. But if he moves from where she left him, he'll be sabotaging her only point of reference for when she retraces her steps.

It's best to stay put.

**\ /**

After another 20 minutes of waiting and mindlessly digging at the dirt with his stele, he hears the unmistakable sound of something moving through the nearby foliage. He jumps to his feet and has a dagger drawn just before catching sight of red, curling hair.

As she approaches, he looks for injuries and finds nothing out of place save for the puffiness around her eyes. She's been crying.

Alec experiences the stirrings of self-loathing.

"I'm ready to go now." She kneels beside her pack, opens it to slide her collapsed cane inside. Shouldering the bag, she stands and awaits instruction. He doesn't like how she expects him to make the decisions, like he's in charge. It's not the case.

"I'm sorry." He's not used to apologizing to someone who isn't family. Blood _always_ forgives. And now he's nervous of Clary's response. "I shouldn't have gotten upset with you. It isn't your fault; it's just…how things are, and I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"I don't know what I'm doing."

Her words sound like permission, so he closes the space between them. "Neither do I." He slides his fingers beneath the straps of her backpack and feels the heat coming through her thin shirt. A tug sends her body forward into his. She doesn't push away. "We'll figure it out though. Soon."

She nods, her nose bumping against his chest. "I know."

With what little light they have left, Alec splays out the map of Idris that was tucked in the shuffle of papers. He calculates a rough estimate of their location and marks a few points he considers probable locations for holding prisoners.

**\ /**

Maybe it's because she can't see or maybe it's because she's _her_, but either way, Clary's shameless about being naked.

It's something he first noticed that hot day she took him outside the manor for the first time. She had stood and stripped down to her underwear right in front of him as if were nothing. Because she wanted to go for a swim.

Now she's stripping again. Only this time, her underwear and bra joins the careful pile of clothes on the river bank.

They were relieved to find the Able. It's the largest river in Idris and runs roughly north-south through the eastern third of the country. Alec is glad to have found a recognizable landmark and Clary is glad to have a place to bathe after three days on the move.

One hand on a rock face that cuts into the water, she wades out into the river until she is waist-deep. Then she ducks under the surface and emerges just a few feet to the right, dark hair plastered to her head and back. Her smile is the first one he's seen since they left.

His clothes join hers on the ground. It doesn't take long to make his way out to her. As soon as he's within reach, she takes his arms and leads him deeper until the water is lapping at undersides of her breasts.

"Clear," she says, cupping water in her palm and then spilling it over his shoulder.

"Not really."

"No?"

"More of a murky green."

"Hmmm."

He lowers his head and tastes her wet collarbone, kisses the smattering of freckles across her shoulder. There's a mark on her neck—one of his—and the fading bruise is sensitive. A caress from his lips causes her to shudder.

He guides her backward through the water with ease. When her body is trapped between him and the rock face, she raises her face to finally accept his kiss. The hand not curled around his bicep trails over his chest and down his abdomen, disappearing beneath the water. His breath catches as she strokes him.

In one fluid motion, he has her halfway out of the water, her legs thrown around his hips and her back braced against the bleached rock as he pushes inside of her. They've gotten better at this. It doesn't take long to find a satisfying rhythm, even with Clary's lips against his jaw, distracting him and driving him crazy.

Beads of water drip down her neck, and he catches them with his tongue as they land on her chest. She shivers and gasps. Shifting together, they negotiate a new angle that takes him deeper.

The sun beats down on his back. It bathes Clary's face, painting her eyelashes, her cheek, her open mouth, the small scar above her left temple. Her eyes are shut against it.

There's a familiar tightening of his muscles. "Clary, I'm…" He groans, half in want and half in frustration, as he begins to pull away. But her hands clutch adamantly at his waist, keeping him inside as she continues to rock and buck against him.

"I want to feel you."

"We can't. We—"

"I'm so close. God... can you feel it?"

"Fuck. _Yes_. But it—"The hot press of her body starts to become desperate, and he doesn't care about anything else. One hand tightens around her wet thigh, and the other slides to where their bodies are joined, seeking her beneath the water.

Blunt fingernails bite into his shoulders as she cries out. She arcs off the rock, taut and trembling. He lowers his head to her shoulder and finally finds his own release, coming inside her for the first time since _their_ first time.

When they've stilled and the water has stilled, he turns his lips to her ear and wonders, "What color was that?"

She shivers. "Not murky green."

**\ /**

The woods of Idris are a far cry from the skyscrapers of New York. The trees are never-ending, the bugs are inescapable, and the quiet is unsettling. And _everything_ is green. Or brown. Or a varying shade of green or brown. Alec's sick of it.

Five days. They've been on the move for five days, and they haven't encountered a single living soul. They're short on food and patience, and they're no closer to finding…well, _anything_. He's beginning to suspect that they've fallen prey to misdirection wards on more than one occasion.

"Listen." Clary's hand grips his arm as they stop.

At first he hears nothing but their own breathing. Then, faintly, the sound of a horse's stride. Two horses.

"Stay here."

"Alec!"

He moves quickly in the direction of the noise. Up ahead there is a ridge just before the ground slopes down at a gentle slant. He hides behind a tree while staring down into the shallow ravine. It's not long before two horses come into view, their riders dressed in black Shadowhunter gear. Alec's heart quickens in his chest, but when he catches sight of the third figure on of the horses was bearing, it stops completely, slamming against his ribcage. He knows that unruly black hair, that small, limp frame, those crooked glasses.

_Max._

"What is it?"

Clary is at his side, but he's stuck gaping at the riders as they pass beneath them, ignorant of being watched. "That's my brother. They have my brother."

"Jace?" she whispers.

"Max."

"Do you know them?"

"No. And his hands are bound."

"How many are there?"

"Two."

"Okay, well I'll distract them, and you do something involving weapons."

"What—"

She takes off, half-running, half-sliding down the hill. As soon as she hits even ground, she begins waving her arms and jumping up and down. "Help! Please, help me!"

Taken by surprise, Alec barely has the good sense to duck behind the tree again before he's spotted. One of the riders, the woman, shouts something, and both horses come to a stop. Clary keeps yelling something about being kidnapped and the Clave, and Alec risks a look over his shoulder to see that the man and the woman are cautiously making their way back in her direction. Max is slumped back against the male hunter, unconscious.

He removes the dagger from his belt and fingers the blade. Eyes closed, he listens in on the exchange. Clary says that she's Valentine's daughter, that she was taken against her will, and that she has just managed to escape her captor.

"I knocked him unconscious and ran."

"Where did you leave him?"

"Back that way."

Alec steps out from his hiding place, takes in the sight of the hunters both turning to look in the opposite direction, and lets the dagger fly. It embeds itself in the woman's thigh. Her cry of pain echoes amongst the trees.

**\ /**

His seraph blade cuts through gear and flesh, and before the man has a chance to recover from the blow, Alec brings the hilt of the sword down on his temple. He crumbles to the ground with a groan.

The woman remains atop her horse, clutching the seeping wound on her leg. She looks from Alec to Clary, who holds the reigns of the horse bearing Max.

"Girl," she hisses, "get on and keep riding."

Clary leads the horse closer to Alec.

The woman's eyes narrow. Her humorless laugh is muffled beneath a grunt of pain. "I see."

"Leave or get down and fight me." Alec advances toward her with his seraph blade raised.

This time, the woman casts a glance at her incapacitated companion before glaring at Alec. "You won't get far."

She digs her heels into the horse's sides and they shoot off in the direction they were heading in before.

Alec lowers his weapon and sighs in relief.

**\ /**

"Is he alright?"

"He'll be fine. They knocked him out with a Mark. It should wear off soon anyway, but I can just…" She traces an awareness rune on the inside of Max's arm.

Alec holds his breath until Max's eyes flutter and then slowly open. He squints up at Clary.

"Who are you?"

"My name's Clary."

"Where are—Alec!"

Max launches himself at Alec, and the collision is almost enough to knock them both over. Alec hugs his brother and thanks the Angel for allowing them to meet again. "I was worried about you. What are you doing out here?"

"I don't know. They came this morning. They said you did something and that I had to come with them." Max pulls back. "What did you do?"

**\ /**

Alicante is overrun by demons. It has been for months. Valentine disabled the towers a month before Alec and Max's capture, and Alec can only assume that since then the Clave has regrouped and established a counter-attack. And as long as Valentine doesn't possess the Mortal Cup or the Mortal Mirror, there's still a chance. A _good_ chance.

The three of them need to find their allies.

"Max, did you ever hear the guards or any of the other prisoners mention where Shadowhunters are stationed in Idris? The ones who haven't joined Valentine?"

Max's face pinches with concentration. "No. No one ever said anything like that."

"But there are other good guys here somewhere, right? Some of the newer prisoners who were caught in Idris?"

"I think so." Max sighs. "Can't we go find Mom and Dad? I want to see them. And Izzy and Jace."

"I do, too, but we don't know where they are right now."

Shoulders slumped, Max frowns down at the red pendant hanging from around his neck, twisting the gem between his fingers.

"You still have Isabelle's necklace."

"That belongs to your sister?" Clary pauses in her task of rifling through the horse's saddle bag. "How long have you had it?"

Max shrugs. "She gave it to me months ago. To help keep me safe."

"Did she wear it a lot?"

"All the time."

She reaches into her pocket and withdraws her stele. "Then this might work."

**\ /**

They can't all fit on the horse, and keeping him will only make them more conspicuous and easier to track. So they send him off in the opposite direction. Max becomes their compass, a tracking rune on the back of his left hand and Isabelle's necklace clutched in his fist. Alec and Clary follow a couple of paces behind.

"It's how I would find Jonathan or my father on the estate." She speaks quietly so as to not break Max's concentration. "When they were home, I would keep something of theirs in my pocket. All I had to do was use the rune and focus. The more personal the item, the better."

"What other Marks did you use?"

"Whatever made life easier; heating runes in Winter, cooling runes in Summer, iratzes for skinned knees."

"Did you ever try finding a rune that would give you your sight?"

She's quiet for several moments. Alec looks over and tries to gauge the expression on her face. He can't.

"I did. For a while. My father was determined to cure me once he realized what I could do. Nothing ever worked though."

"Did _you_ want to see?"

"I wanted to make my father happy."

**\ /**

They find a rock overhang that should provide them with enough shelter for the night. It's getting too dark to keep moving. Max half-jumps, half-slides down the overhang and lands unsteadily on his feet. Alec easily follows after him and then turns back to help Clary, who's sitting on the ledge, arms already outstretched. He lifts her, and she wraps her legs around his hips before he can set her down again.

"Thank you," she says and kisses him sweetly.

He squeezes her sides.

"Is she your girlfriend?"

Clary drops to her feet, and Alec turns to find Max watching them, head cocked to one side. Alec feels his face heat. "I…yeah. She is."

Max grins. "Do Mom and Dad know you have a girlfriend?"

"No. Remember, I haven't seen them in a while."

"I think they'll like her." Max switches his attention to Clary. "Jace will, too. He likes girls who're pretty."

**\ /**

They forgo building a fire. Not only would it draw unwanted attention, but it's a hot evening, and they don't have food to cook anyway. Alec divides up the dried meat Clary salvaged from the saddlebag while Max shoots off question after question.

"You were born in Idris like Alec was?"

"That's right."

"But you've never left before?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"My father didn't like the idea of me traveling."

"Why not?"

"He was just protective, I guess."

"Because you're blind?"

Alec sighs and tosses his brother a ration. "Next question, Max."

He takes a moment to consider and then visibly perks up. "So if you can make new runes, does that mean you can draw a rune that would make me fly?"

Clary shrugs as she finishes untying her hair from its braid. "I don't know. I haven't tried. I prefer having my feet firmly on the ground. Less of a chance that I'll get caught up in some tree."

"I'm good at climbing trees." Max takes a bite of his jerky. "There's this really big one back home, and I can get to the very top. I'll show you some day." He pauses mid-chew and frowns. "Well, you won't actually _see_ me climb it, but I'll shout down at you from the top so you know I made it."

Clary smiles as Alec finally takes a seat on the ground beside her. "I'd like that."

**\ /**

After a five minute argument about who's going to sleep without a cot—Alec, Clary, and Max all vying for the honor—Clary huffs and rolls both pallets out side-by-side so they form one larger bed.

"We'll squeeze," she says. "All of us."

Max _innocently_ suggests that Clary sleeps in the middle. "Because it's safer if we get attacked by wolves or something."

Alec rolls his eyes and Clary barely stifles a grin. His brother is only ten, Alec reminds himself. "That's okay. _I'll_ sleep in the middle."

Max looks a little disappointed.

**\ /**

The sun is high in the sky when Max suddenly stops walking. He looks down at the rune on his hand and then turns to Clary, perplexed. "It stopped working. I don't feel anything."

"Then she must be here somewhere. What do you see?"

"Trees," Alec mutters.

Clary shoots an annoyed look in his direction. "Anything else?"

"Stone." He kicks at the stunted rock formation. If it weren't for Clary's hand in his, he would probably collapse on top of it and refuse to get up.

"There must be a glamour or—"

"What?"

Clary has gone still. Her brow furrows in concentration. "We're not alone. There are other Nephilim here. I feel their Marks…"

The tree branches shake as four black-clad figures drop fluidly and silently to the ground.

**\ /**

"There are so many people," Clary murmurs. "How do you keep track of them all?"

He squeezes her hand. "You'll get used to it. And not everyone will be important to you."

They've just emerged from a narrow tunnel into an open courtyard. The afternoon sun is staved off by the tall ravine walls that climb steeply into towering hills. The sky, choked with clouds, has an ethereal effect on the stone fortress looming ahead of them. Amidst the striking natural surroundings, the medieval fort looks crude and painfully man-made. The courtyard is bustling with activity. People, wagons, crates, and livestock. If it weren't for the modern clothing everyone was wearing, Alec would have suspected he'd just stepped back through time.

When Isabelle says his name, he still can't quite believe she's actually _here_.

"So this is it." She shrugs. "Home sweet place-with-shitty-plumbing-and-no-electricity. I guess we should just be grateful no one's tried to burn it down or ransack it with a demon horde."

"Valentine doesn't know we've set up base camp here?"

When Isabelle tosses her hair, Alec notices a new scar running from her left cheek down to her neck. It makes her look older. "He's clueless. Every once in a while we'll find an oath traitor wandering around near one of the hidden entrances, but they either leave or we take them out. It's a good thing you guys were so noisy. We mistook you for a herd of elephants instead of a team of infiltrators."

"What are oath traitors?"

Isabelle looks to Clary as if noticing her for the first time—even though Alec introduced them ten minutes ago in the woods. "Nephilim who betrayed the Clave to join Valentine. Cowards. Men and women too weak to stand against the ragings of a psychopathic murderer."

Well, the introductions hadn't been very thorough. First names only.

**\ /**

It isn't long before news of their arrival spreads. Alec hasn't taken two steps through the door when he's grabbed roughly and hauled into his mother's arms. She says something against his shoulder before releasing him and taking up Max.

Alec doesn't realize how much he has missed his mother until he finally sees her.

She pulls back, and her gaze inevitably flickers to Clary. "Who's this?"

"This is Clary," Max answers quickly. "She's Alec's girlfriend, and she's awesome."

_"Oh." Maryse is startled but offers her hand. "It's…nice to meet you."_

Before Alec can move, Max has jumped over to Clary's side. He takes her hand and guides it toward Maryse's. "She can't see, Mom."

Clary grins. "Thanks, Max." She shakes his mother's hand. "It's nice to meet you, too."

**\ /**

The original foundation and outer walls of the fort date back to the time of the Crusades. A small but wealthy group of Shadowhunters sympathetic to the Christians' cause built the stronghold in Idris as a refuge for those soldiers traveling to Jerusalem. When the Clave learned of its existence, they punished the Nephilim who had broken the Law by allowing Mundanes to pass into their country's borders. They confiscated the fort and turned it into a safe house, should Idris ever suffer invasion.

From the look of the interior, it hasn't been renovated for at least 50 years. The stairs and halls are narrow and winding, linking a labyrinth of rooms that have been converted into sleeping quarters and other amenities necessary for housing some 75 Nephilim.

Maryse leads Alec to a bedroom on the second floor. The light walls and sparse furnishings remind him of home.

"You'll find clean clothes in the dresser. We don't have spare gear so you'll have to make-do with the set you're wearing until the next shipment arrives. If you need anything else, the storeroom is downstairs, next to the kitchens."

"Where's Clary?"

"I put her in a room down the hall. Next to Isabelle."

"It'll be easier if she just stays in here with me."

Maryse falters while closing one of the drawers. She looks at the single bed and then at Alec. "How old is she?"

"Seventeen." _Barely._

"Just because her parents aren't—"

"Her _parents_ are a comatose woman she's never met and a man who's too busy planning the destruction of his own race to pay any attention to the daughter he's imprisoned."

Maryse frowns but doesn't disagree. Not that she _could_.

"I just don't think it would be appropriate for you to share a room with a young girl who is now under the guardianship of the Clave."

"Mom." Alec has to look down to meet her eyes. "She'll be in here whether it's her room or not. But it will be easier if she has changes of clothes and, you know, stuff for her hair. We sort of have a routine."

Alec does not understand the expression that crosses his mother's face. Almost like surprise. Or realization. Maybe even disbelief. Something that he can't recognize because he has never experienced it himself. What he does understand is the sigh that comes afterward.

"And you're"—Maryse hesitates—"being careful?"

_By the Angel._

"Yes," Alec says. "As careful as we can be." He won't give his mother a rundown of _that_.

**\ /**

Alec likes his room better once Clary is sitting cross-legged on their bed, hands twisting the end of her braid.

"I like your mom."

"Did she say something to you?"

"No."

Alec sprawls out beside her on top of the covers. She immediately begins combing her fingers through his hair. "And Isabelle?"

"She loves you. A lot."

"And?"

"And what else is there?"

**\ /**

"And you remember nothing of your journey from the prison to the house?"

"No. They knocked me out. The same way they knocked out my brother."

"By your estimate, you were at Valentine's home for nearly three months. And yet you never saw Valentine himself. Even though you had unrestricted access to most of the premises."

"Is that a question?"

"Do you find it unusual that you never saw him once during your captivity?"

"Not really. Clary said that—"

"What do you think Miss Morgenstern's motives are?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you think she befriended you and then helped you escape?"

"Because she started to realize the truth. She knows that what Valentine is doing is wrong. And only the Clave can protect her from him."

"You think Valentine wants to hurt his daughter?"

"I think he will once he realizes she's switched loyalties."

"We're done for the day, Mr. Lightwood."

**\ /**

Alec waits for an hour outside the room where Clary is undergoing questioning. When the door opens, she steps into the hallway, looking angry and disoriented. Alec takes her hand.

"How did it go?"

"I kicked her in the shins."

"On purpose?"

"Not as far as she knows."

"It's their job to be difficult. That's how they figure out whether or not we're lying."

"Innocent until someone can invent evidence that makes you guilty," she quotes as they start down the hall. "My father told me that about the Clave."

"He's wrong. The Clave is fair. At least, they try to be. It's harder now when they're worried about spies."

"And are you worried I might be a spy?"

Alec stops walking, catching Clary off guard. She stumbles into his side.

"I want this to be the only time we have to talk about this."

"Okay."

"Are you a spy?"

"No."

"Good. Neither am I. Do you want to eat some dinner now or wait until later when my mom might be willing to cook?"

**\ /**

Alec watches his mother at the stove. _Really_ watches her. He's gotten good at reading hands, and hers are hesitant and white-knuckled.

He's not surprised when she says she needs to speak with him. Alone.

**\ /**

He bruises easily. He has since he was a child. Before he was old enough to receive _iratzes_, his mother would put bandages over his bruises the same way she did for his cuts and scrapes. He hadn't known any better. He only cared that when the bandages came off, the bruises were gone, the skin as good as new.

No hurt ever lasts longer than the touch of bandage or a stele. That's the sort of simplicity that permeates a Shadowhunter's life.

Or, at least, it used to.

"Isabelle told me about your father." Clary's arms wrap around him from behind. Her chin dug into his bare shoulder. "Can I do anything for you?"

"He's been dead for five months. It's been seven months since the last time I saw him."

Her hands slide down his chest, inadvertently caressing the angry welt from his impromptu training session. He flinches.

"Do you need a healing rune?"

He laces his fingers through hers and inhales in the scent of her new shampoo. "I'm out of shape. My reaction time is off."

"Then you'll have to practice."

They sit in silence on the courtyard floor, and even though Clary's crouched position must be uncomfortable, she doesn't move. Other Nephilim pass by. Alec doesn't see them.

"He's dead. He's…gone. And Jace is missing."

"We'll find him," she promises.

**\ /**

He slips easily back into the routine from his training days in New York. Early mornings, light breakfasts, and long hours practicing in the courtyard or the converted gym. Afternoon intelligence meetings have replaced the study sessions, as scouts and ambassadors report back to the Nephilim's new unofficial headquarters. Dinner is still at seven.

The biggest difference is that he doesn't get as much sleep.

**\ /**

"This is a condom?"

"Yes."

"It's not what I expected."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know. I never really thought about it. How does it go on?"

"Here. Give it to me."

"Huh. It feels…strange. Does it feel strange to you?"

"_Clary_…"

"I'll take that as a 'no.' Hey! What are you—oh. Oh. Mmmm."

"Still think it feels strange?"

"No. Yes. I mean…please, don't stop."

**\ /**

Two hundred and sixty seven. That's how many people are living at the fortress on a permanent or semi-permanent basis. More come every week. Refugees from places around the world—survivors from the Institutes targeted by Valentine in addition to hunters who have come to help the cause. Forty-two of the two hundred and sixty seven are orphans under the age of 18.

Alec recognizes them all by sight. Their searching eyes, their aimless walk, their family ring hanging on a chain. It gives them away.

**\ /**

"I feel useless. All I can do is hold crying babies. And the babies don't even like me."

"That's not true." Alec remembers seeing her with them the day before. They like to touch her hair.

"But it's not even that helpful. Isabelle does local patrols. Your mom practically runs the place. You're training to get back into fighting condition. And even Max is helping out in the kitchens. I'm just sitting around collecting dust."

He pushes her wet hair back over one shoulder. "Switch with me."

They shift, and she steps past him into the spray of the shower. Alec grabs their body wash.

"You should ask my mom if you can get involved with coordinating the offensive. They've decided to put a new task force together. Things have been moving too slowly."

Clary finishes rinsing the conditioner from her hair. "The Inquisitor won't let me do anything like that. I've told him everything I know about my father, and he still treats me like I plan to set this place on fire."

Brushing aside her extended hand, he reaches for her waist and pulls her toward him. "The Inquisitor doesn't get the final say in _everything_," he says and draws the washcloth down her spine. "You just have to show them you can be useful."

"That easy, huh?"

"For you? Yes." As he washes the apex of her thighs, she leans into him—her belly against his hips and her breasts pressed to his chest. Slowly, she lowers herself to her knees.

"Can I show you something first?"

**\ /**

"What's going on?"

Isabelle doesn't look up from her bowl of cereal. "We're eating breakfast."

"Right."

Clary smiles into her orange juice and pats the spot on the bench beside her. Alec sits and says near her ear, "Why are you and my sister eating breakfast together?"

"Isabelle is going to take me shopping."

"Where?"

"The storeroom." She offers Alec one of her toast slices, which he absently accepts.

"I don't understand."

Isabelle pushes away her empty bowl. "My friend down in inventory told me that a new shipment came in last night and that it contains certain luxuries like new clothes and body lotion that doesn't leave your skin feeling like bacon grease. My friend has also agreed to let Clary and I have first choice."

"Your _friend_?"

"I would invite you to join us, but you're the reason I need to stage an intervention in the first place."

Alec frowns. "Me?"

"Yes." She points an accusing finger at him. "The days of you dressing Clary are over. Just because _you_ don't mind looking like someone who fell out of a Sears catalogue from the late 80s, doesn't mean that Clary should have to endure the same fashion handicap. I'm stepping in to take over her wardrobe."

"She looks _fine_." Alec turns to Clary. "You look fine. More than fine."

Isabelle snorts. "This coming from the guy in a wrinkled gray t-shirt."

Clary shrugs but looks amused by the accusation. Pressing a fleeting kiss to Alec's cheek, she gets to her feet. "I'll take the dishes."

**\ /**

As soon as Clary is in the kitchen, Alec leans across the table toward his sister. "What are you doing?"

"I told you. We're going to go pick out clothes. If you're lucky, I'll send her back with something you can thank me for later."

He shakes his head. "Why are you helping her? You haven't done a single nice thing for her since we got here."

"I'm in a good mood."

"Isabelle."

"Fine." She crosses her arms. "I'm bored, okay? There aren't enough guys my age, and the girls are all stuck on themselves. Besides, everyone's too busy to hang out anyway."

"So…Clary is just your last resort?"

Shrugging, she looks away. "Yeah, well, she's not that bad. She doesn't talk until my ears fall off, and she's not as self-important as I first pegged her. Plus, she hasn't killed you in your sleep yet. We both know she's had plenty of opportunities."

"Very heartwarming."

"Hey." She flicks a breadcrumb at him. "I'm trying, okay? You've been smiling a lot lately and getting laid can't be the only reason."

Alec snorts but chooses—wisely, he thinks—not to comment.

"Wow." Her eyebrow quirks. "No blush. So you haven't just been playing king of the hill every night like Max suspects."

**\ /**

When Alec arrives in the council room, he's surprised to spot Clary's unmistakable red hair amongst the senior Clave members. As soon as he enters, she turns to him. Even from across the room she recognizes the presence of his runes.

"What is Mr. Lightwood doing here?" Inquisitor Hrosmund growled. He's a brawny man just over five feet tall. If the scar running the length of his face doesn't intimidate most people, then his perpetual scowl is usually enough to set them on edge.

Maryse steps forward. "I've reassigned him to the counteroffensive task force. He should be present for this. Shall we sit?"

There's some grumbling and gruff words, but people begin taking their seats. Clary makes her way toward Alec, and he pulls out chairs for the both of them. They don't get a chance to speak before Inquisitor Hrosmund calls the room to order.

"We've received correspondence from Valentine. His son Jonathan passed on a message to one of our fighters in the field. The letter was shoved _inside_ her chest cavity."

Clary starts at her brother's name.

"He's _proposed_ a prisoner exchange."

One of the men scoffs. "He's never been willing to do one before."

"Yes, but now we have his daughter."

Clary frowns. "I'm not a prisoner."

"According to Valentine, you are. And if we return you to him, then he's willing to release a dozen of our fighters from his holding cells."

"No."

Everyone turns to regard Alec. Clary's hand is on his arm. She speaks softly. "Alec, Jace could be—"

"No." He shakes her off. "Valentine's not a fool. He knows where your loyalties lie now, and he knows what you can do. He would rather see you dead than fighting for us."

"He wouldn't. He would _never_ hurt me like that. You don't know him."

"And you do?"

Her face pinches. The tick of her jaw tells him not to go any further, so he shuts his mouth around the words, _He's lied to you your entire life._

"It doesn't matter." Maryse sounds tired. "Clary knows too much about our operation. And even if we set up new misdirection wards, there would be nothing to keep her from finding us again the same way she did the first time—of her own volition or otherwise. Turning her over to Valentine would be too great a risk."

"Maryse is correct." The Inquisitor tapped his fingers impatiently against the tabletop. Unfortunately. It would be in our best interest for the girl to remain in our…custody."

"My name is 'Clary.'"

Inquisitor Hrosmund purses his lips. "Miss Morgenstern. Perhaps it's time that you show us just what it is about you that Valentine finds so irreplaceable."

\ /

It's the dead of night when the fire message arrives. Valentine's forces have attacked the Sao Paulo Institute—a place the Nephilim have been using as a makeshift hospital for their critically injured.

As options are considered, discussion quickly turns to argument, and argument devolves into shouting. Half the fortress is awakened in a state of alarm, and no one seems capable of achieving consensus.

"The closest reinforcements are in Rio de Janeiro."

"Only a skeleton team."

"Do we know a warlock in the area?"

"A _warlock_?"

"We don't have time for bigotry, Greenfield."

"Why don't we—"

"You'd put their lives in the hands of some Downworlder For Hire?"

"Send a message back. Tell them—"

"We can't just _sit_ here!"

Alec stands in the corridor, clutching Clary's hand amidst the glow of half-a-dozen swerving witchlights and twice as many restless bodies. He smells blood, but it's only his imagination—only his body preparing for a fight he can't be a part of. He focuses on his mother's solemn face and tries to breathe slowly.

Clary's blunt fingernails dig into his forearm. "They have to _do_ something."

"Yeah, but—"

"Those people could be _dying_." And then she is gone from his side.

Stele in hand, Clary stumbles toward the nearest wall. Alec cranes his neck and watches as adamas is pressed to stone. Thick, black lines appear in the stele's wake. She moves methodically, not hesitating until a complete rune is before her, stark and unrecognizable. The wall fades beneath a pinprick of light that expands into the churning luminescence of a portal.

The room has gone silent.

**\ /**

"How is he doing?"

Clary withdraws the damp cloth, replacing it in the bowl beside the bed. Gently, she runs a hand over the sleeping boy's forehead. "His fever is gone, but he won't wake up. We've tried everything."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Sybil says there's a warlock coming to heal anyone beyond our help. He's supposed to arrive tomorrow morning with a group of returning hunters."

Alec takes in the sight of beds crammed wall-to-wall in the infirmary, each occupied by someone recovered from Sao Paulo. Although the number of casualties is unforgivable, it could have been worse—_much_ worse.

"His parents died in the night," Clary whispers. "Maybe it's better that he's asleep."

"No." Alec pulls the blanket up to the boy's chin. "No, it isn't."

**\ /**

When Alec hears raised voices coming from his room and echoing down the hall, he picks up his pace. The door is wide open, and the first thing Alec's stunned mind takes in is Jace standing just a few feet in front of him—standing, and alive, and seemingly not maimed in any serious way. The second thing Alec notices is Clary sitting on the bed with the sheet twisted up around her. She looks harassed, and Alec can guess that his _parabatai_ has already offended her in some way.

"Jace."

He turns around, and Alec is face-to-face with Jace for the first time in six months. Nothing could be more reassuring in that moment than the familiar quirking of Jace's eyebrow and the imperious tone with which he says, "Alec, did you know there's a naked girl in your bed?"

He _has _noticed that. And now he moves to position himself directly in front of Jace, blocking Clary's state of undress. "Yes. I know."

"Why is there a naked girl in your bed?"

Behind him, Clary sighs. "Oh dear. That really is a conversation you should probably have with your mother. I'm sure Maryse can find some books with some very helpful diagrams."

Alec snorts and Jace's wide eyes whip to him, bright with disbelief and indignity. "That was _not_ funny. And she's not…you're not…she's…"

Jace is completely baffled, an occurrence rare enough to garner Alec's amusement and a strange sense of pride. But then he really thinks about it, and Alec realizes that there isn't anything particularly funny about this situation. In fact, the more he thinks, the more anxious he begins to feel.

"You're not _with _her," Jace manages finally.

This time Clary's voice is quiet. "Maybe I should go."

"No," Alec says quickly. "Jace and I will leave. We've got a lot to talk about." He looks pointedly at his _parabatai_.

Jace's mouth snaps closed. "Yeah. I guess we do."

**\ /**

"But you're out. You don't need her anymore."

"I wasn't _using_ her to escape."

Jace crosses his arms. "I don't understand."

Alec sighs. "I like her, Jace. A lot. And we're together."

"You can't be serious."

Alec expected this conversation to be difficult, so he's not deterred by Jace's antagonism. Actually, Alec is relieved. They're standing together in the kitchen's washroom, and although this is the closest he's been to Jace in months, he experiences no heart-racing uncertainty. No suppressed anticipation. No clammy hands. He's glad Jace is here and that he's safe, but beyond that…

Alec doesn't feel like he has to hide something more.

"You don't like her?"

"It's not about liking her," Jace retorted. "I'm sure she has many winning qualities if you let her lie around naked in your bed all day. But you can't trust her."

"Oh, really?"

"She's Valentine's daughter. He raised her, taught her. You really think her loyalty is to you?"

"That's kind of ironic considering that just last year people were wondering the same thing about you."

Jace is silent.

"Look. I'm not asking you to trust her. I'm asking you to trust _me_. So, can you please just…do that?"

He doesn't seem pleased by the prospect, but Alec can tell he has relented the moment he shakes his head and moves on to the subject his recent whereabouts.

**\ /**

"I didn't really offend him, did I?" Clary asks when he returns to their room.

"Hm?"

"With the sex comment. I didn't actually take him for a virgin. Not after what he said when he first barged in here."

"No, he wasn't offended." Alec doesn't think he wants to know what Jace said. "And he's definitely not a virgin. He always has girls throwing themselves at him."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do girls throw themselves at him?"

"Because he's"—Alec flushes—"attractive. I guess."

Clary makes a face. "That seems like a silly reason to sleep with someone."

She means it, of course. She doesn't say it pretentiously or disingenuously, the way other people do when making those sorts of comments. Looks don't mean much when they can't be seen.

Jace is definitely going to be a hard sell.

"And what do you think a good reason would be?" Alec sits down on the floor next to where she is sprawled on her stomach, a notebook open in front of her. Leaning back against the foot of the bed, he watches in fascination as perfectly formed lines appear beneath the point of her pencil. Slowly, they take the shape of a rune he doesn't recognize.

Clary smiles to herself. "You mean, why do I sleep with _you_?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

She lifts the pencil from the page. "Well, I like the way you talk to me. You're not condescending like Father or Jonathan. And you're not scared of me like the servants always were. You talk to me like I'm a normal person."

Alec raises his eyebrows. "If that's all it takes, then we may be experiencing some problems in the near future because—"

"Hush." Lead touches paper. Another rune begins to form. "I also like how you help me see. And I don't just mean the physical things. Anyone with some patience could do that. You've helped me see a lot of things—some stuff that I never really wanted to see in the first place." Her hand pauses after guiding the pencil through a sharp angle. A moment later, it resumes its journey. "You've taught me about colors. I like the colors you make me feel. I like _your_ colors. A lot. Sometimes I wish I could make you see them, too. I like the way you touch me. Like you've never touched someone like me before, and like you don't want to stop. And I like touching you—"

Alec has her flipped over on her back before she can finish the thought. He kisses her and she smiles against his mouth. It's a kiss that tries to say many things at once.

**- TBC -**

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thanks for reading! This goes out to all the Fraywood shippers out there. :)


	3. Part III

**AN:** This update would not have been possible without the positive feedback from you, lovely readers. Thanks for being patient. I had to stop writing fic for a while so that I could focus on school. But winter break has got me back on track. ALSO, HEY, MAGGIE. Thanks for the awesome and speedy beta work on this part. Love ya!**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Compulsory Butterflies: <strong>**Part III**

Clary has learned her way around the fortress. When she first arrived, it was days and days of bruised shins and shoulders (the sprained pinky finger lasted a little longer, but only because she didn't tell anyone about it). Now she knows how steep the stairs into the armory are. She knows that it's twelve steps from one end of the kitchen to the other and five steps from her bed to the bathroom. There's a long groove in the wall just before the entrance to the dining hall. It's smoother and straighter than the crack that runs the length of the front corridor, or the chipped plaster characteristic of the infirmary.

She's grown into the space.

But sometimes she misses the wide-open grounds back home. The lake. The hot breakfasts. The long baths. The library full of books she could read. The anticipation of her father's return.

These moments of weakness are fleeting; they slip away like water through her fingers, gone before she gets a chance to measure their depth. It's better this way.

**\ /**

The energy in the fortress is palpable. Jace's return affects all of the Lightwoods. Maryse sounds stronger, Max laughs, Isabelle cries when she thinks no one can hear, and Alec makes love to Clary with more urgency than before.

Jace brought a Warlock from New York back with him. He does what he can for the Sao Paulo refugees—draining poisons, healing wounds that would otherwise be fatal., He even wakes the wills of those who have drifted far from the troubles of the world. He does all of this while noting the unforgivable state of the castle's décor, cursing the person who thought tapestries belonged anywhere but in a museum.

Things are beginning to change.

**\ /**

Clary can hear Alec's voice from all the way down the hall.

"We have strongholds here, here, and here. All kept by able fighters. The problem is the _distance_. Communication is difficult because we don't get phone reception out here. We're mostly limited to fire messages."

"I don't suppose you've tried email?"

"No internet connection."

"Great. By the time this war business is all over, I'm going to be an entire season behind on American Idol."

"Is that some sort of religious group?"

Following the voices, Clary uses her cane to negotiate the tight, unkempt space of the spare conference room. Heavy boxes are strewn across the floor, and it takes her longer than usual to reach Alec's side. She's rewarded with the warmth of his hand settling on the small of her back.

"Clary, this is, uh, Magnus Bane. You've probably already run into him in the infirmary."

"But we haven't been properly introduced," Magnus' voice comes from the other side of the table. He's tall, like Alec. "I've heard all about the young Morgenstern renegade. You know, for most people, teenage rebellion is just a phase. Like stirrup pants in the 80's."

"Well, I guess my rebellion is less like stirrup pants and more like the American Revolution. In the other 80's."

"Ah, yes. The human race is just brimming with mistakes."

"And yet you're here to help us protect it," Alec points out.

Magnus sighs and drops into a chair. "I suppose there's something annoyingly redemptive about humans. Just when you're ready to banish them all to Antarctica, one of them goes and invents low-fat cream cheese and slippers for your cat."

Alec makes a repressed noise of amusement.

Clary frowns. "But do you _like_ humans?"

"Do you?"

"I don't know. I've never met a Mundane."

"And yet here you are. We each have our own reasons for wanting stop Valentine—even if those reasons aren't quite as noble as your boyfriend's."

Alec's hand flexes against her back.

**\ /**

She can't keep from smiling when Max's fingers catch in her hair for the third time.

"Oops. Sorry. I almost had it."

"It's okay. I'm not tender-headed."

"Izzy, am I doing it right? Izzy. Is-a-belle!"

"_What?_ I'm right here. You don't have to yell. By the Angel."

"But you're not watching. Am I doing it right?"

"Mm. Sort of."

"This is how you told me to do it."

"It's _sort of_ how I told you to do it. You're pulling too tightly. She'll be bald by the time you're done."

"No she won't."

"You're doing a great job, Max."

"_See_, Iz. Clary says it's fine."

"She's _blind_. Of course she can't tell it's the Medusa of French braids."

"I don't care how it looks. I just need it back out of my face."

"That level of complacency isn't allowed until you're fifty."

"What's 'complacency' mean?"

"It means spinsterhood, Max. It means sweatpants, t-shirts with stained armpits, and lots and lots of cats."

**\ /**

The evenings are cool. When the sun goes down, the cold air from the mountain peaks seems to sink into the valley and settle around the fortress like a ghost's touch. Alec and Clary take two blankets with them out onto the sloping grass—one to lie on the ground and another to throw over their legs.

Clary presses her face to the side of Alec's chest. "How's Jace settling in?"

"With Jace, it's less a question of him settling into a place and more a question of a place trying to settle in around him."

"Well, we haven't gone up in smoke yet. And the girls around here certainly don't seem to be complaining. Apparently he's what they consider to be 'charming.'"

"He can be. When it suits him."

He sounds distracted—his thoughts far from her and their idle conversation. It reminds her of their early exchanges back at the manor, when he was constantly preoccupied by concern for his family. "Has he said where he's been all this time?"

Alec sighs. "Nowhere and everywhere. He's been traveling around trying to find the Mortal Cup. According to him, he's less likely to draw Valentine's attention if he does it alone."

"But you're his _parabatai_. You're at your strongest when you fight together."

He doesn't reply. Instead, he rolls sideways so that they're chest-to-chest, his mouth near her cheek. "I wish you could see the stars," he breathes.

She doesn't mind the change in subject. She burrows her face in his neck. "Tell me about them."

"They're brighter out here. There aren't any city lights to drown them out." Beneath the blanket, his hand settles on the small of her back. Fingers find their way under the band of her leggings. "Each one is just a tiny point of light in the sky, so they're not all that impressive just to look at. It's when you think about how far away they are, and how they're actually the size of the sun…"

"Does it make you feel small?"

"No." He traces her hip bone. "It makes me feel lucky."

"How?"

"Because the universe is huge—bigger than any of us can really comprehend. And yet, somehow, I ended up here with you."

She wonders how dark it is, wonders if he's nearly as blind as she is right now. "I think I know the feeling. Even without all those big stars for reference."

"Yeah?"

She lifts her chin and catches his cheek and then his lips. "Yeah."

His fingers skate her thigh to the apex of her legs. She bends a knee to give him room.

"I can show you stars," he says and presses inside of her.

**\ /**

Jace avoids her. She might not have noticed, except that Alec has a habit of pointing it out to her. It bothers him that Jace slips out of a room when she enters it; or, if he doesn't leave, he at least refuses to speak to her. She doesn't think it's his _parabatai's_ approval that Alec is after. The two of them are too close to ever negotiate acceptance.

It's _her_ he's worried about. He's worried about her happiness. He's worried about how she'll fit into his life—and his family _is_ his life. Because Jace is an unstoppable force, and she's an immovable object, and they can't avoid collision forever.

That's the reason she's standing in the training room—a place that makes her more than a little nervous. It's late in the afternoon, so it's just the two of them. Each throwing knife lands in the target with a muffled _thump_. She listens and wonders if he's as good as everyone says he is.

"You don't trust me."

Another knife strikes. "This is usually where I would say something smart about stating the obvious. I'll refrain only because you haven't seen all distrustful looks I give you. Maybe I'm less conspicuous than I think."

"Oh, it's pretty obvious. Even a blind person can tell that you're an asshole."

"Buttering up your future in-laws already?"

"I care about Alec. And, no matter what you may think, I'm not here to hurt him."

"You know, part of the whole 'me not trusting you' thing is that I don't believe what you say."

"And what can I do to make you start trusting me?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Do you love him?"

"Alec?"

"Valentine."

She's gotten used to people referring to her father by his first name. Usually, it's spoken with anger or bitterness—sometimes with fear. But the way Jace says it is different. The name echoes with a silent _ave atque vale_.

"He's my father."

"Of course. He's your father. He's raised you your entire life. You don't know any better, and that's why I can't trust you."

"He's not a monster. Everyone thinks that he is. Even Alec. But Valentine's as human as you and me."

There's silence. Maybe he's run out of knives or maybe he's deciding whether or not to use one on her instead. Just for a moment, Clary _hates_ this boy.

"I know he's not a monster," he says finally. The words sound buried beneath a hundred others that aren't spoken. "If he were, you could hate him. It isn't wrong…don't let them tell you it's wrong."

He leaves the room without collecting his weapons.

**\ /**

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That Jace was raised by Valentine before he came to live with you."

"Who told you that?"

"Isabelle."

Alec stops whatever it is he's doing at the dining hall table. "I didn't think it was important."

"That's a lie."

"Alright. I didn't _want_ it to be important. Jace is one of us, Clary. He's a Lightwood. All those years of Valentine pretending to be his father and pretending to care about him were a lie. They don't define him, and Jace has been through a lot to prove that to the Clave. He's trying to move on."

"Move on? You don't _move on_ from who you are. Valentine raised Jace for ten years. He's the only father Jace has ever known. He _loved_ Valentine because that's what children _do_."

"He's not a child anymore."

"He can't pretend that part of his life didn't happen, and neither can you."

The door to the dining hall swings open on rusty hinges. Max begins talking as soon as he strides inside. "Clary, guess what came in the last shipment? A bunch of books. And one of them is that Harry Potter book I was telling you about.

She turns from Alec. "That's awesome."

"I thought I could start reading it to you. Maybe we could do a couple of chapters every day."

"That sounds like a great idea, but right now isn't really a good time. I could come by your room later?"

Max shuffles his feet. "Are you two having a fight?"

"No," Alec says quickly. "We're having a discussion."

"That's what Mom and Dad always said when they were having a fight."

"Well, we're not Mom and Dad."

"If you and Clary break up, where's she going to sleep?"

"Max." She clears her throat. "I'll meet you in the study in fifteen minutes. There's good light in there, right?"

"Yeah." He heads back toward the door. "I'll see you there. Good luck with your _discussion_."

Once they're alone, Clary settles onto the bench beside Alec. He's resumed whatever task she interrupted. She reaches out to investigate, and her fingertips brush cold metal pieces.

Alec catches her wrist. "Careful. It's sharp."

She nods and slowly withdraws her hand. "When I was five, my father said I needed to know what a blade was. So he cut me with one." His touch lingers on her arm. She shrugs. "That's how I learned what 'sharp' means."

"I'm sorry."

"I love my father, Alec. And if you're waiting for a day when I stop, then I don't think either of us is ever going to be happy."

**\ /**

There's a lot of talk about what to do next. After a year of constant bombardment, Valentine's forces have suddenly paused in their assault against the Nephilim resistance. No one feels relieved.

Suspicions run wild. _Valentine has found all three of the Mortal Instruments._ _He's_ _waiting for us to get lazy and make a mistake._ _His son has taken over. He's preparing for a final strike. He's already won._

Clary sits in on the meetings of the offensive-strike task force. It's a privilege, she knows, and it probably wouldn't be allowed, except that Alec is on the task force, too, and Maryse is _Maryse_, which means a lot around here. Plus, no matter what highly secretive plans they make, there's a good chance Clary will be the one to open the highly secretive portals they'll need to use to get the job done.

She sits and listens to strategies being bandied back and forth. She witnesses the frustration, the uncertainty, and the fleeting moments of desperation. She feels the chill of the room and smells the burn of fire messages that are never read aloud.

**\ /**

They haven't had sex since their conversation in the mess hall, and she's not sure what that means. It's only been five days (two of which she's spent on her period), but it feels longer. It's longest they've ever gone without being intimate, and maybe that wouldn't scare her, except tomorrow morning Alec is leaving on a mission with an indefinite timeframe. As she lies motionlessly on the bed beside him, it feels a little like her world is crumbling around her.

It's late, but he isn't asleep. His breathing is too irregular—though Clary can tell he occasionally tries tricking his body into relaxing by forcing out long, even breaths that sound like sighs. After the fourth such attempt, she can't _take it_ any longer.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asks.

"No."

"You need to sleep. You need to rest before you go tomorrow."

"I know."

"There's an empty bed in the room down the hall. I can just—"

"Please stop."

She runs a hand over her face. It's something she does in moments of stress and only when she's sure there isn't someone around to witness the gesture. (Somewhere along the line, Alec stopped counting as _someone_—probably around the same time she'd started memorizing the lines in his palm.) She brushes the lids of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the softness of her lips. It grounds her, and for a moment she feels like she can see what everyone else does.

Alec rolls over onto his side. "I'm not angry. You think I am, but I'm not."

"I'm not either."

He touches her chin, picking up where her own fingers had left off. He finds the heat trapped between the pillow and the curve of her neck. "I was at first," he admits. "And I can't say I really understand why you care about Valentine the way that you do."

She draws in a breath to argue, but Alec stops her.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "That's what I've realized. Even if I don't understand why, I can't change the way that you feel. And it doesn't change the way that I feel about you."

For some reason she smiles. The corners of her eyes are wet. "Affectionately frustrated and mystified?"

She waits for him to tease back, but he doesn't. He breathes quietly in the small space between them, and the inches are suddenly filled with every moment they've ever spent together. They're hot and cold, and dry and damp, and Clary feels farther from sleep than a star is from earth. Their colors mix. They do not make black, white, or any shade less than the quality of her heart quickening inside her chest.

"I'm in love with you."

**\ /**

The goal of the mission is to slip past Valentine's defenses around Alicante. At night, the borders of the great city are protected by the same demons it was built to repel. During the day, Nephilim loyal to Valentine's cause patrol the gates alongside hired warlocks and vampires. The Clave, having decided a direct assault would be impossible, plans to send a small team inside the walls to do reconnaissance and, if possible, to procure the Mortal Sword. The Sword's location in the capitol is the latest rumor to trickle into headquarters, but for some reason Inquisitor Hrosmund finds this particular source impeccable.

"If she says Valentine is keeping the Sword there, then that is where you'll find it. She's the one person on the inside who I'm willing to trust."

Five hunters were chosen as part of the infiltration team. Jace and Alec are the youngest.

When her brothers step through the portal, Isabelle sighs with something heavier than exasperation. "It's not fair. Just because we aren't eighteen."

This is Isabelle being kind, Clary realizes.

"Yeah. If only we were eighteen."

**\ /**

Somewhere along the line, working in the infirmary becomes tedious. The purpose she once felt in scrawling a powerful _iratze_ over an injured Nephilim's bruise diminishes in Alec's absence. She thinks about him risking his life for what he believes in, and she thinks about herself—sitting here waiting for _something_ to happen.

_I'm in love with you,_ rings like a call to arms in her head.

**\ /**

"Someone wants to meet with you."

Clary turns her face toward Magnus's voice. She's elbow-deep in kitchen gloves and soap suds. Beside her, Max is drying the baking dish she's just passed him. They've been cleaning up the dinner mess for the past twenty minutes, and Max has spent the entire time regaling her with embarrassing stories about his siblings' childhood. His animated descriptions make her smile, and she consciously files away the information for later.

"Wow, Magnus, you're extra sparkly today," Max says in greeting.

"Oh, look, someone's taught a Shih Tzu how to talk," Magnus drawls in a dry tone. "No, wait. That's just Max Lightwood."

"Hey. Not cool."

"Doesn't your mother know child neglect is a crime and that she could be arrested if you don't get your hair cut soon?"

"I like it long."

"And I like it sparkly. Hair gel is _not_ the enemy. If I teach you nothing else, at least remember that. Lord knows you won't get such sound advice from your brother."

Clary passes Max a dripping sauce pan. "Have they heard from Alec yet? From any of them?"

"No, but that was the plan. Radio silence, unless they get detected."

"It's been a week."

"Look on the bright side. Maybe it means they're experiencing heaping quantities of success. Maybe they've been so overwhelmed with how good things are going that they can't stop to mail you a postcard. But that's not what I came to talk to you about. There's someone who would like to meet you."

"Who?" She's wary of his response. Usually, when someone wants to meet Valentine Morgenstern's daughter, it's not because they feel the urge to extend a warm hand of friendship.

"He's a friend of a friend of the guy who installed the fish tank in my apartment."

"Is he a Shadowhunter?"

"No. Werewolf."

"And he's here at headquarters?"

Magnus sighs impatiently. "Have you _seen_ any werewolves romping around the halls lately? Or _ever_?"

"I don't see much of anything, to be honest."

Max snickers, and Magnus groans. "Blind jokes. _Fantastic_."

Pulling the plug in the sink, Clary lets the water drain away as she tugs off her gloves. She's already made up her mind about going, but she can't help but ask, "What would a werewolf want with me?"

"I imagine it has something to do with him being so chummy with your mother."

**\ /**

It's cold outside, and Clary has to rub at her nose to keep it warm. "What are we waiting for?"

Magnus, who Clary assumes is leaning against the stone wall of the fortress, doesn't sound the least bit bothered by the cold. "We're waiting for backup."

"I thought you said that this wouldn't be dangerous."

"I said that Luke wasn't dangerous. Maryse, on the other hand, is another matter. If she's finds out that we're breaking house rules and Portaling Without Permission, she'll be cranky. Very cranky. And during my stay here, I've learned that the best way to deal with a cranky Lightwood is by redirecting their ire."

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

"By distracting her with a rebellious offspring."

Clary recognizes the sound of Isabelle's footsteps on the stone pathway because she's the only person at headquarters who saunters around in six-inch heels. She's muttering about the weather as she approaches, and when she stops beside Clary, the sensation of newly drawn runes is almost overwhelming.

"You're Marked for battle. Didn't Magnus tell you this isn't going to be dangerous?"

"Yes. And he also told me that Sebastian Verlac slept in the nude. Clearly he's not to be trusted."

Clary lifts her eyebrows. "I thought you said you wouldn't sleep with Sebastian. Because he's not your type."

"He may be a small fish in a small pond, but he's not as small as some of the other fish around here. If you know what I mean."

Magnus sighs dramatically. "This is all _very_ interesting, but we're already running late because Isabelle had to change her underwear. So let's proceed, shall we?"

Clary withdraws her stele from her pocket. "Do you want me to do it? I wouldn't want you to strain yourself."

"Creating a portal does not _strain_ the High Warlock of Brooklyn."

"You have been looking a little tired lately," Isabelle offers.

Magnus scoffs. "You would look tired, too, if it had been nine weeks since your last organic seaweed wrap. My pores are screaming for nutrients."

Clary begins drawing the rune. "Then you can just humor me."

\ /

They're somewhere in Idris. That's all she knows, and she doesn't ask for the specifics. The smell is the first thing she notices. The people standing across from them don't smell like Nephilim or Warlocks—there's something distinctly animal about the scent. And yet it doesn't quite fit in with the wild odor of the woods around them.

They sound human enough when they talk. Intelligent. Empathetic. Cautious. These are not the kind of Werewolves that her father warned her about. The one who wanted to meet her—the pack leader—tells her that his name is Luke and that he needs her help. He has a kind voice and his scent carries the residue of lost runes.

"You were Nephilim once," Clary says.

"Yes. But it's been a while. I was turned before you were born."

A shudder shakes her as she imagines being stripped of her Marks—the one thing that makes her functional, that makes her valuable. It fills her with horror. "I don't understand how I could help you."

"Valentine has Jocelyn. I want to get her back safely. She's…important to me."

Clary doesn't let herself react to either name. "What makes you think she's still alive?"

"Valentine wouldn't kill her."

Beside her, Isabelle makes a soft sound of disbelief. Clary considers the man's certainty, weighing it against her own understanding of her father. She tries to fit the scattered pieces of the puzzle together. "What is it you want me to do?"

"Jocelyn is in a magic-induced coma. It was part of a security measure she put in place should Valentine ever find her. The only way to wake her up is through powerful magic. A spell from the Book of the White."

"The book is lost." Clary can recall as much from her father's instruction. The spell book is rare, with only one copy unaccounted for.

"We were able to recover the book in a raid a few days ago. Magnus has agreed to put the necessary potion together. We just need a way to get it to Jocelyn. As long as she's comatose in Valentine's custody, it's impossible for us to get close enough."

Clary understands now, and she almost turns and walks away. But the only things waiting for her back through the portal are an empty bed and more dirty dishes. "What's her secret?"

Luke shifts on his feet. "What?"

"What's so important that she's willing to keep it from my father at any cost? And if it's so important, and she's so safe, why bother trying to rescue her now?"

There are several moments of silence, and Clary knows that she has upset him in some way. Maybe he thinks this is something she should want as badly as he does. "The war is changing," he says finally. "We can't be sure she won't be caught in the crossfire."

"What does she know?"

More hesitation. Clary grits her teeth. Waiting on other people isn't something she's had much practice with, and secrecy is something she can only take in small doses.

"Look, if you're not—"

"The location of the Mortal Cup. She's hidden it, and she's the only one who knows where it is."

Isabelle sucks in a sharp breath. Magnus, who's been uncharacteristically silent, lets out a low whistle.

Clary can feel her heart rate quicken. "You think Valentine will let me get close to her if I go back to him."

"There's a chance. Maybe not a great one."

"And you don't want the Cup?"

"It wouldn't be of any use to me," Luke admits. "But I can't promise that Jocelyn will turn it over to the Clave, either."

Isabelle touches Clary's sleeve. Her voice is low. "We should talk to—"

Clary shakes her head. To Luke, she says, "I'll think about it."

He exhales like he's been holding his breath for the entire conversation. "Good. Thank you. But you should know that if we're going to do this, we'll have to act quickly. Things are getting unstable."

"I'll let you know by tomorrow. Is it safe for me to send you a fire message?"

"That should be fine. We won't be staying here long."

Clary nods, and as she turns to leave, Luke's voice, softer than before, calls out. "You look so much like your mother."

Clary continues toward the wall. "I don't have a mother."

The warmth of the stele is the only thing that keeps her hand from trembling.

**\ /**

When Clary wakes up the next morning, Isabelle is sitting on her bed. She has two bowls of oatmeal in front of her and passes one to Clary while she's still trying to stretch the sleepiness from her limbs.

"Thanks," Clary mumbles.

"No problem. I just didn't want to wait for you to get your own breakfast. No offense, but you're sort of slow when it comes to that sort of thing."

Clary picks up the spoon, but the congealed mass at the bottom of the bowl is too thick to stir. She sighs and rests the bowl in her lap.

"You're gonna do it, aren't you?"

"Can you think of a reason why I shouldn't?"

"My brother."

Clary runs a hand through her tangled hair. When her fingers catch in the knots, she tugs even though it hurts. "Getting the Mortal Cup would help Alec. He and Jace could come home."

"You know that's not what I meant." Isabelle flips her hair, kicking up a whiff of some sparkling floral perfume that makes Clary's nose itch. "He wouldn't want you risking your life on some crazy stunt that has a five percent chance of success."

"Do you think I want him out risking _his_ life? Of course not, but I know it's something he has to do, and I wouldn't stop him from fighting for the safety of his family."

"So is that why you're going to do it? To serve the cause? Because if that's the reason, why aren't you telling the Clave about the plan?"

Clary throws the covers off of her legs and maneuvers to the side of the bed closest to the bathroom. She takes up the brush on the nightstand and begins pulling it methodically through her hair. "If I tell anyone, even your mom, they won't let me go. They don't trust me."

"And running back into the arms of your father is such a great way of demonstrating your loyalty."

"You heard what Luke said. If things are changing for the worse, Alec and Jace could get caught up in whatever my brother is doing. We have to act _now_. If we take this to the Clave, they'll find some way to screw it up."

Isabelle is silent. As Clary pulls clean clothes from the closet, she can practically hear Isabelle stewing.

"What makes you think it's your brother that's causing problems?"

"I know the sound of his breathing. I know which foot he leads with when he climbs the stairs. I can name every time he's ever laughed. I know what he thinks of our father's plans and what he would do to correct them. He'll want to push things farther. He doesn't have my father's restraint."

"Sounds cuddly," Isabelle mutters. She sets her bowl on the nightstand with a disgusted sound and throws herself across the bed. "Alec is going to skin me alive."

It feels like her heart rises and falls at the same time. She runs her hands twice over the front of a shirt to make sure it's something that will match the pants. "Will you explain it to him? If he comes back, and I'm gone, I don't want him to think—"

"He would never think that you turned on us. As nauseating as it is to witness, Alec thinks you're holier than Raziel's spit. He'll be angry and hurt when he finds out what you've done, but he'll understand why."

Clary nods. The bed creaks. Then Isabelle is standing next to Clary, pushing through the hangers in the closet.

"These are the only clothes you have?"

**\ /**

The page is not smooth beneath her fingertips. There is a texture of pulp and ink. She imagines she can feel the words—not individual letters, but the larger impression of ideas put to paper.

"It's like running a hand over your arm and feeling all the fine hairs at once, but not knowing where one ends and another begins."

"We're not going to get to finish it, are we?"

She turns back to the cover, making sure the bookmark stays in its place. When Max first told her about the story of a boy attending an official school of magic, she had laughed and tried to imagine warlocks waving little wooden sticks around to cast spells. But as he read more and more, Clary found herself drawn to the simplicity of it all. Beneath the cloaks and cauldrons there's just a boy fighting for his place in the world. Fighting against the past and its expectations.

"Do you want me to tell you how it ends?"

"We'll finish it. You should read it to some of the other kids."

"Harry dies. He dies because he does what's right."

She wants to tell him that right and wrong are colorless. She's never seen black or white and doesn't understand how love can be the opposite of hate. Life is not the end of death. If colors are like choices, then they bleed until one shade could be mistaken for another.

But Max's breathing has quickened, so she places her hand over his, seeking out his _voyance_ with her own. They sit together, and he makes no promise not to tell that she's leaving. He doesn't need to.

**\ /**

The bag that Clary used when she and Alec left home is still tucked beneath the bed. She pulls it out and fills it with the bare minimum—a change of clothes, a ration of food, a water bottle, a blade. She doesn't plan to travel for long, but she's learning to expect the worst. For a moment she considers adding the small vial of potion that Magnus conveyed to her an hour ago. It hangs like a pendant on a leather cord, and she's anxious that if she's not holding it, the vial will disappear. In the end, she places it around her neck, concealing the container beneath her shirt.

She's packed, and it's late. Asking Magnus to lower the wards around the fortress would only implicate him in her escape. When Clary makes her portal, it will trigger an alarm for the Nephilim on duty. She will have to pass through quickly so she's not followed.

Once the weight of her few belongings is settled against her back, she crosses to the bed one last time. She lifts one of the pillows, hugs it to her chest, and inhales what's left of Alec's scent after two weeks of his absence.

It feels longer. It feels like all of the years she spent biding time at home and waiting for _something_—anything—to distinguish one day from all of the others. Looking back, she thinks she has spent the majority of her life waiting for Alec in one way or another. He has come, and he has gone, and she is done standing around.

When Clary sets the pillow down, it is damp with tears. She wipes at her eyes reaches for her stele on nightstand. Instead of _adamas_, her hand encounters the finely woven fibers of fabric. Unfolding the cloth, she finds the shape of sleeves, a zipper, and pants made from a material every Shadowhunter is familiar with.

Clary has never owned her own gear, but she recognizes the armor she's always been meant to wear.

**\ /**

The step into the portal is easy. It's the second step—the one she takes sideways into an unknown space—that has her hesitating, lifting both her arms, checking the air for obstacles. The third and fourth steps are taken backwards as Clary stumbles away from the wards, their energy simmering scant inches from her face. She smells burning hair and knows that she's only just managed to avoid being charred and thrown through the air.

This is home, then.

She extends her cane and checks her immediate surroundings, noting trees and natural debris. There is no birdsong. No hum of wasps. No sound but the breeze through the trees and the even push and pull of her own breath. She is alone.

She keeps the wards to her left and begins to walk.

**- TBC -**

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> As long as you guys are reading, I'll keep writing. I don't really view this as a story with a conventional arc or ending. I'm just writing about Clary and Alec going about their drama-filled lives. That's one of the reasons I don't feel compelled to crank out weekly updates. Things are just sort of rolling along. IDK.

'Till next time!


	4. Part IV

**AN: **As usual, major kudos to Maggie for being a beta extraordinaire. If you guys like reading this story, it's because of her.

* * *

><p><strong>Compulsory Butterflies: Part IV<strong>

It isn't that small spaces particularly bother him. Once, when he was nine, he spent six hours trapped in the bottom of a well after Jace convinced him a Gravler demon had laid eggs at the bottom of it. Alec should have been suspicious when Jace didn't volunteer to go down first. While Maryse tracked down a warlock willing to levitate him out, Alec nursed a broken ankle and endured a lengthy lecture from his _parabatai_ on the sheer impossibility of any demon laying eggs—whether they looked like a platypus or not.

It isn't the size of the space.

It's the damp heat clinging to the century-old stone. It's the smell of waste and decay caked onto his clothes. It's the smell of his own sweat _beneath_ those clothes. It's the fact that it's been a week since he's seen sunlight, and two weeks since he's had something hot to eat.

Something small and rough smacks into the side of his head. Alec turns to glare at Jace. "What?"

Jace rolls a second stone in his palm. "You're distracted. You need to be focused."

"I am focused."

"On sulking. You should be focused on detecting signs of discovery." Jace crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back against the sewer wall with his eyes closed. "I'm doing all the work here."

"There's _no one_ to detect."

"It would seem the Secret Tunnels are aptly named."

Alec twirls his dagger once and jabs it into the soft, sandy ground. "We've been in Alicante for two weeks, and we're not any closer to finding the Mortal Sword _or_ undermining Valentine's operation."

"We have a plan." But Jace sounds as disenchanted as Alec feels.

"It's a bad plan."

"It was _your_ plan."

"I know," Alec allows, "but we're moving too slowly. Even divided into teams, there aren't enough of us to search miles and miles of sewer. It could be another two weeks before we find the entrance to—"

Jace's eyes flash open. "So what—you think we should just go back to headquarters and wait there? At least out here we're being proactive."

"Are we?" Alec shakes his head. "We haven't been in contact with anyone in weeks. Maybe the parameters have changed. Maybe they need us back at—"

"You mean maybe _Clary_ needs you."

"Jace." Alec smoothes his features into their most neutral expression, resorting to a calmness that he's come to perfect over the last several weeks. Any time Jace refers to Clary like she's a particularly nasty disease, Alec parries with patience. Jace can't stand it when people are patient with him. It takes a great deal of self-control on Alec's part, but goading Jace has become one of his few distractions from the dingy dimness of the tunnels.

"She can't be _that_ good in bed."

Then again…. "I don't _want_ to hit you."

"Or maybe she is."

Alec resolutely digs his blade into the dirt, chipping away at the small stones. "That's none of your business."

"Come on. If it isn't the sex, there has to be something." Jace sounds petulant. "Something that sets her apart."

"You really want to talk about this?"

"I'm bored. Making you uncomfortable helps satiate my desire for conflict."

Alec turns away with a noise of frustration.

"Here, I can help you get started." Jace leans forward. "You like Clary more than you like Magnus _because_…"

"Magnus? What does Magnus have to do with anything?"

"Well, you like him, don't you? I can tell. But you're in love with Clary."

"I don't…"

"Don't get me wrong; Magnus wouldn't be my first choice either. Something about the fuzzy leg warmers makes me question the man's ambition."

Alec refuses to meet Jace's eyes. He feels too hot and slightly nauseous. Something about his _parabatai_'s nonchalance makes Alec feel like the earth has been stripped away beneath his feet but gravity hasn't quite caught up to him. "I don't...Magnus is...he's...but I _love_ Clary."

"Do you?" All of the sarcasm is gone from Jace's voice. He sounds resigned. "I thought maybe she was just a way to—"

"She's not."

\ /

They got careless.

That's the first thought that flits through his mind when he hears the scuttling of legs through water just before something heavy and swift knocks into him. He pitches forward, barely getting his hands up fast enough to stop his face from meeting the ground. Ahead of him, Jace whips around, seraph blade drawn from his belt. He's still muttering the seraphic name when a second demon launches itself at his chest.

Alec knows he needs to move, but cord-like tentacles twine their way around his left arm and suddenly it feels like an entire city's worth of electricity is surging through his body. He screams out against his will. Something is burning. Faintly, through the pain, he hears another voice, but he can't open his eyes, and soon everything is indistinguishable darkness.

**\ /**

It doesn't begin as a dream. Clary is crouching beside him, warm-bodied and smelling strongly of the shampoo he had rubbed into her hair on the last morning they spent together. She's saying something, and it sounds important, but he keeps kissing her mid-sentence. Neither of them understands.

She presses a stele into his hands, carefully wraps it in his fingers.

Now her voice is sharp and distinct. "Are you ready?"

He nods and she lies down on the ground. There isn't much space in the sewers, but she's small and he's able to straddle her hips between his knees. He wonders where the others have gone.

The shirt she's wearing is dark and pristine, and she pulls it up, exposing her stomach and the runes swirling across it.

"Go ahead," she tells him. "Don't stop, no matter what."

When Alec looks back down at his hand, the stele is gone. In its place is a dagger—straight-edged and glinting.

It makes sense now.

Only the slightest pressure is required for the tip to break skin. Blood wells around the blade as he drags it down, tracing the line of a Mark that is on the tip of his consciousness.

"It needs to be deeper."

It's then that Alec realizes that she's looking at him. Her eyes, as green as they've always been, are staring directly into his own. There's no uncertainty, no coincidence in the stare. She _sees_ him.

He presses harder, not stopping the dagger is sunk to the hilt and the rune is grizzly and

complete. Two overlapping circles seem to both push and pull apart, drowning in the pool of blood.

Clary is blind again—her eyes still and unseeing. He doesn't know what the Mark means.

**\ /**

When Alec comes to, he has to blink away the brightness of the room. Daylight pours in from tall, curtain-drawn windows. Everything from the carpet to the sheets he is sleeping on are white. There is even a white bandage taped to his arm.

He sits up, and his first thought is _Jace_.

The memory is clear—opaque as it is sharp. The darkness of the sewer. The ambush. A sound, wet, like mud being sucked under a boot heel. Jace swearing and then silence. Electricity.

There's a stiffness in his neck. Alec raises a hand to the small puncture wound just beneath his ceratoid. It's scabbed over, and he can tell from the iratze fading on his shoulder that he hasn't been out long. No more than five hours. It doesn't put him at ease.

A glass of water sits on the discreet table beside the bed. His throat is dry, and the roof of his mouth tastes like paper, but he can't bring himself to do anything but cautiously sniff the cup for the bitter scent of sedatives.

When he pushes himself onto his feet, the room spins and he has to sit back down for a full two minutes before managing a second attempt. The door seems too far away, and he feels naked without a weapon, so he shuffles toward the windows.

Nausea overwhelms him when all he sees in the distance are rippling waves of sand that stretch toward the unbroken horizon.

**\ /**

"Where are we?"

"The Namib desert. For now. Tomorrow we will be somewhere else. Perhaps Prague."

"Where's Jace?"

Jonathon gives Alec a look of disinterested contempt. "I told you. He's back at home. Where he belongs."

"Take me to him."

"No."

Alec flexes his hands. "Why not?"

Jonathan doesn't respond.

"Did you hurt him?"

"He's my brother," Jonathan says, as if that's an answer. The words make Alec's skin crawl.

"That doesn't—"

"I wouldn't hurt him, but I can't always keep him from hurting himself."

"Why am I here?"

Jonathan folds his arms across his chest. He is shorter than Alec but has a larger build. The way he carries himself makes Alec doubt his chances going into a one-on-one fight unarmed. "Jace is family. He belongs with us. And you,"—Jonathan lowers his chin—"are becoming a problem."

Alec says nothing. It's his second day in the house—which must be enchanted—and Jonathon is the first living person he's encountered. The door to his bedroom is locked from the outside.

"Quite a bit changed during your stay in the sewers. For one, your spy is dead. I killed her first—a traitor's death. I took my time tracking down the rest of your party until only the two of you were left."

"You killed them."

"Naturally."

"But I'm still alive. Why? I won't give you information. Neither will Jace."

Jonathan makes his way over to a desk chair situated rather uselessly in the corner of the room. He drops into it. "I'm fairly certain there isn't anything of interest you could tell me anyway. Whatever remains of the _resistance_ will be dealt with shortly, even without you divulging their whereabouts. I told you, things have changed."

"Then why—"

"For instance, my sister has returned to us."

Alec falters, and Jonathan notices.

"You look surprised. But you shouldn't be. She knows she belongs with Father and I."

"What have you done to her?"

"Nothing. She chose to return, and Father accepted her with open arms."

Alec glances around the room, suddenly desperate for anything that could be used as a weapon. "You're lying."

"I'm not. It's why you're here. Because Clary thinks she's in love with you." The words are said ironically. Jonathan's eyes are dark with a cold amusement.

Just the sound of her name has Alec expecting to find her standing beside him, hand outstretched for him to take. But he keeps his attention on Jonathan and doesn't lower his guard for a moment. If Clary were in the house, Alec would _know_.

"You're nothing to me," Jonathan continues. "You're a mediocre hunter fighting for the losing side in a war that is going to change the rules of this world. It was a mistake to let my sister fuck you, and if it were up to me, I would kill you now."

Alec doesn't flinch under the harsh scrutiny. He meets Jonathan's gaze evenly.

"But Clary wants you alive, and Father has always spoiled her."

**\ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ /**

**Ten Days Earlier**

When the door closes, Clary has to resist the urge to throw her tray of food at it. Of course it isn't the maid's fault that she's been under house arrest since her arrival. It isn't the maid's fault that she's been confined to her room for the last five days, learning to hate the space she had spent memorizing for the first sixteen years of life. But Clary is desperate to throw something, do something—anything to make the frustration inside of her something physical.

Her room is not what it used to be. It is smaller, quieter, less comfortable. Without a stele in her hand, the room is more confining than shackles. She knew coming back was a risk, but she had thought that, at least, here she would be doing something useful

**\ /**

"Take me to my father."

The servant sets the tray of food down on the table. The scent of beef broth fills the bedroom. "The Master has forbidden interruption from anyone."

From _you_.

"I want my stele."

"The master has forbidden it."

**\ /**

She carefully tracks the footsteps approaching her room. They are too quiet to belong to a servant. Too purposeless to belong to her father. And yet she _knows_ them.

The lock on the door disengages, and Clary feels her brother enter the room.

He closes the door behind him. "Father didn't tell me you were back. I had to hear it from one of our prisoners. He seemed convince that you were working as our spy the entire time."

Jonathan embraces her as her father had when she first arrived. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. Only he does not release her. He grips her shoulder and runs a hand through her loose hair as if it is familiar and dear.

The instinct to push him away takes her by surprise. She learned as a little girl that physically rejecting her brother is futile, and almost always backfires. He is bigger. He is stronger. He can see. He does what he wants. She knows better. She used to know better.

Instead of pushing him away, she tells him what she told her father. "It was wrong for me leave. I hated it there. You should have seen them, lawless and unorganized. Completely helpless. I couldn't stay any longer."

"You missed us."

"I missed everything. The house. The gardens. The lake. My bed."

"They why leave in the first place?" He thumbs her chin. "If you're so fond of our home."

He doesn't believe her. Neither did her father at first. So she wraps her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and leans a little closer. "You were right about them, and I shouldn't have left. But Alec missed his family."

"The Lightwood boy?"

"Yes. He was worried about them and—"

"He threatened you."

She bites the inside of her lip. His voice is so stark white she feels her own is red and seeping like a wound. "No. Alec needed to make sure they were okay, and I wanted to help him. So I—"

Quickly, he releases her, and she stumbles back a half-step. "Why? Why would you break Father's rules and leave without permission?"

"Because he never would have given me permission. You know that."

"So you betrayed us for the first man you wrapped your legs around?"

"It wasn't like that! I love Alec, and he—"

Jonathan's laugh is sharp. He sounds amazed. "You _love _him?"

She collects herself. She imagines that Alec is standing at her side. "Yes, I love him. And he loves me. And even though he doesn't realize he's supporting the wrong side, I know I can change his mind."

Jonathan makes a derisive noise. "Because he_ loves_ you?"

"Yes."

Jonathan is silent. She follows his breathing closely, listens as it evens out into its usual easy rhythm. He is watching her, something he knows makes her feel her own blindness. "Clary," he says finally, "you know I only want what's best for you. And this boy…he isn't our blood. And you're not his. His loyalties lie elsewhere, and he can't be trusted."

"You were the one who brought him here in the first place."

"And he served his purpose." Jonathan closes the space between them until she can feel the heat from his body. "He certainly made a woman out of you. I hardly recognize my meek little sister."

This time when he touches her there is no condescension in the gesture. He runs his knuckles along her jaw as if he means to learn the shape of her face. She sucks in a breath and doesn't move.

"What more could you want from him?"

**\ /**

She doesn't imagine heaven. When she thinks of an afterlife, she images New York, a city so tall it pushes at the sky. She imagines Alec holding her hand and crowds of people rushing around them, faceless and unseeing.

Max calls out their names, and nobody stops but them.

**\ /**

"Miss, the Master will see you now."

**\ /**

The last time she was in her father's office, she stole papers off his desk. He must know that, but he doesn't mention the transgression. He sits and scratches ink into new papers.

"It's not my desire that you to be confined to your room," _scratch scratch scratch,_ "but you understand why I'm wary of letting you roam free."

"You think I'll try to escape again."

"No." _scratch _"But you came back for a reason. You can't expect me to believe that it was only homesickness that drove you back into our arms."

"I want to see my mother."

The scratching stops. He lays the pen on the desk. "Your mother?"

"They told me she's alive. That she's always been alive and that you're keeping her prisoner."

In the short silence that follows, her father makes a decision.

"What they told you is true," he says. His voice remains steady and composed, rich and smooth like the dark chocolate he used to bring home from his trips to Belgium,. Clary remembers letting pieces of it sit on her tongue until the bitterness melted sweet while her father quizzed his children on the progress of their studies.

"Why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me she was dead?"

"I wanted to spare you the truth. I thought it would be best that you believed your mother had died, not that she abandoned you and your brother as infants."

"Why did she leave?" _Why didn't she take me with her?_

The chair legs grind against the carpet as Valentine stands. "I told you the Clave killed your mother. That isn't necessarily a lie. They destroyed the woman I loved and turned her into someone who would betray her husband and children. She succumbed to their propaganda."

"What did she do?"

"She gave the Circle up to the Clave, and then she stole the one weapon we had to defend ourselves. You were two days old. Taking you with her would have hindered her escape."

**\ /**

It's late and the cold from the bathroom tiles seeps up into her skin. She's been sitting in front of the toilet for hours, hearing her father's words and feeling nauseous. She hasn't gotten sick, but the anticipation is there, along with the piecemeal impression of Jocelyn Morgenstern that has started to take shape in her mind: dark hair, cold hands, diamond-cut eyes that never miss a thing, and a voice like wind through sturdy tree branches.

Clary rolls Magnus' vile between her palms. There is an unprecedented amount of magic inside, and the liquid makes the glass warm, and she's become accustomed to the heat of it against her breastbone, where she usually wears it beneath her shirt. When she holds it to her ear, there is a soft, hollow hum—the echo of an ocean churning inside a seashell.

When Clary unscrews the tiny cap, the sound grows into a throb. Idly, she wonders if swallowing the liquid would turn into a song. She wonders if, given the chance, her mother would have sung to her when she was a child.

She taps the uncapped vile along the rim of the toilet seat, and tips it infinitesimally. She tips it a little further. The potion is hot where it touches her thumb, and though nothing spills, she flushes the toilet anyway.

**\ /**

When Jonathan asks if she would like to go on a walk, she doesn't hesitate to agree. He tells her that it's cool outside and helps her into a fleecy jacket that smells brand new. He also tells her she won't need her cane. So she laces her arm through his and lets him lead her down hallways she would have no trouble navigating on her own.

They both know that she's giving him something.

**\ /**

If it weren't so windy, it would be pleasant outside.

Clary doesn't like wind. She doesn't like its senselessness or its impermanence. She doesn't like how it's one more invisible force pushing her along. But she can feel sunshine filtered through thin clouds, and the ground is supple beneath the soles of her shoes. Growing inside of her is an urge to run to her favorite tree and feel whether or not the bark has changed since she left. But Jonathan is like an anchor at her side.

"Is it true? Are you and farther collecting the Mortal Instruments?"

"Yes, and we almost have them all."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Summon Raziel, of course. You know the story, Clary. Father told it to us when we were children. Any Nephilim who brings the instruments together and conducts the ceremony can summon the angel and demand that he fulfill a desire."

"What will Father ask for?"

"All Nephilim who hasn't pledged him their loyalty will be turned into Forsaken."

She doesn't stifle her gasp quickly enough. She thinks of the horror stories she heard as a child and imagines the Nephilim she met at the fortress—Max, Isabelle, Maryse, dozens of children—turning into inhuman aberrations. She imagines Alec's humanity being stolen away. The thought makes her shudder.

Jonathan covers her hand with his. "Don't worry. The brutes won't be left to wander about. They'll be killed quickly. We started massing our armies weeks ago."

"But what then? If you destroy all the hunters, who will fight the demons?"

He doesn't answer immediately, and Clary worries that he will not reveal any more of their plans. Maybe he is testing her as much as she's testing him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is bitter. "Father wants to start from scratch. He wants to use the Mortal Cup to turn all humans into Nephilim so that we can wipe out the Downworlders,"

"You don't agree."

"He thinks too highly of Heaven's power," he answers vaguely, and Clary is too surprised to question him. She hasn't heard Jonathan speak against their Father since he was a little boy. Valentine does not tolerate defiance from anyone—least of all his own children.

Clary remembers the rumors that had circulated inside the fortress. She remembers the werewolf's misgivings.

"_The war is changing. We can't be sure she won't be caught in the crossfire."_

"Father lets his prejudices blind him." Jonathan brings them to a stop beside the lake. Wind whips through the reeds and silences the birds that usually occupy the trees. It feels like they're standing in a vacuum. "He gets so caught up in the Nephilim's ancient _mandate_ that he refuses to acknowledge their complete potential. He underestimates other sources of power." He turns his body in toward hers. "And he's always undervalued you."

"I don't know what you mean. I can't fight."

She doesn't expect him to touch her—doesn't expect the _way_ he touches her. His thumb traces the parting of her lips, as light and glancing as the breeze against her face. He lingers at the corner of her mouth. "You're a Morgenstern. You're more valuable than any one of those rebels. They pale in comparison to us. You and I have a power they could only dream of."

She drops pulls her arm from the crook of his elbow and moves closer to the bank. "I want to meet our mother."

"Why? She's nothing."

"I want to know what she's like."

"It's pointless. She's unconscious, and nothing wakes her."

"Is she here at the house?"

"Of course not. Don't you think you would have noticed if she was?"

"Father won't take me to her."

"He doesn't trust you."

Clary bends down and digs a smooth rock from the muddy bank. It's flat and dirty in her hand, and she throws it as high and hard as she can over the lake. It lands with a distant _plunk_ in the water. She rubs the dirt off on her pants.

Behind her, Jonathan laughs in his sharp, humorless way. "Don't worry. He doesn't trust me either."

**\ /**

"Father."

"You aren't eating, Clarissa."

She picks up her fork—a habitual response to the disapproval in her father's voice. But she can't concentrate on eating and drags the tines through the pasta on her plate instead. A servant crosses the room and refills her father's cup. Jonathan hasn't joined them, but his absence isn't mentioned.

"You missed my birthday."

The glass is replaced on the table. "Yes, and I'm sorry. But the rebels were staging an attack against Alicante, and they had to be dealt with swiftly. You understand."

"Yes. But you've never missed my birthday before."

Valentine sighs. "You will have other birthdays."

"Yes. But you didn't get me anything."

This makes him pause, as Clary suspected it would. Her father had always prided himself in bestowing important gifts on their birthdays. Each gift is a lesson, and Valentine has always endeavored to educate them.

He sets down his fork. "You're right."

"I was thinking that—"

"You want to meet your mother."

"Yes."

The chair creaks with the shifting of his weight, and it's the only sound in the room. "I don't think that would be wise."

"You don't have to worry about me trying something. I already told you, I want to be here with you and Jonathan. I could never go back to _those people_."

Her father doesn't respond. She sets her own fork aside.

"What if…I told you something you don't know? About the resistance—the rebels."

"We've already discussed this. The wards prevent you from directing us to their stronghold, and there's nothing you could inform me of that I'm not already—"

"But what if there is?"

She can feel her father bristling at the interruption. "Clarissa—"

"What if I could tell you where to find Jace?"

She has his attention _now_.

"Go on."

"I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to hurt him or…Alec."

Valentine must motion a servant to the table, because there's the sound of feet padding against the carpet and the _clink_ of dishes. Then a door closes.

"For one," he begins, "there is nothing I have to promise you. You are my child, and you will obey me."

"Yes, but—"

"Secondly, I have no desire to harm your brother. The Lightwood boy on the other hand…"

"But I love him. And he wants to join you. He _will_. I'll convince him, I promise."

"Could you?" He sounds curious, but Clary recognizes danger when she hears it. "Could you get him to submit to your desire? Could you command his loyalty? It isn't an easy task. And he is lost in the darkness."

The air feels thin and doesn't fill her lungs. Her chest burns. "I could do it."

"It does not seem fair to give you two gifts."

Clary reaches for her goblet to stop the trembling of her hand. Concealed beneath her shirt, the vile throbs like a second heartbeat.

**\ /**

The next morning, Clary is navigating the halls on her own.

She can feel Jonathan before he turns the corner. He bears battle Marks and a stride quickened with anticipation. He's just come from Valentine's study, and she knows that the information she gave last night is about to be put to use.

She shouldn't feel like a traitor, but she does. Anything and everything could go wrong, and there's nothing more she can _do_.

By the time Jonathan is close enough to smell, her stomach is aching nauseously. As he passes her, he bracelets her wrist with his fingers, speaks next to her ear. _You may have struck a deal with Father, but accidents happen, and the sewers are dark._

**\ /**

On the first day of waiting, Clary can't stop moving. She walks every hall, opens every door, and climbs a tree that used to frighten her.

**\ /**

On the second day, she lies in the grass and tries to sync her breaths with the passing clouds and their rhythm of coolness and warmth.

**\ /**

On the third day, Clary gets out of her bed and nearly stumbles over the body lying on the floor.

**\ /**

There are moments when she feels that she's lost track of her senses. It's as if her body decides that something is too much, and very quickly everything goes soft and indistinguishable. She thinks that must be what people mean by 'blindness.' Blind touch, blind taste, blind smell, blind sound, blind sense. It happened once when she was eight and fell off the horse she was learning to ride. And again when she accidentally blew apart her door with an _open_ rune. It happened when Alec first kissed her, touching her until the world chippedaway in layers of color.

It happens now, when she sinks to her knees and gropes clumsily ahead of her.

An arm. Durable cloth. Marks. Belt. Broad chest. Shoulder. Soft hair. And no matter how hard she tries to focus, she can't bring the pieces together, can't make sense of it.

She is shaking and not breathing. She cannot bring herself to touch the face. But there is a _parabatai_ rune _somewhere_, and the familiarity of it makes her ache. She searches for a hand and finds it large, calloused and completely unfamiliar.

Her lungs finally release.

As her senses slowly return, she grips the hands until, finally, she feels the lethargic, steady pulsing of blood beneath her own.

"Jace."

She says his name and squeezes his hand. She does it five more times before he begins to stir.

"Wh—I…nggh."

"Jace, are you hurt?"

His response is an indiscernible groan. Clary abandons his hand and moves hers methodically over the rest of his body. When she reaches his thigh, he jerks beneath her touch.

"What are—what are you doing?"

"Checking for injuries. Are you bleeding anywhere?"

"I…" He catches her wrist before she can probe him any further. "Where are we?"

"Don't move. You might have a neck or spine injury. Do you have a stele? I could heal you…"

Jace leans up off the ground, and she stays still to avoid bumping heads. "He took my stele," he mumbles.

"Jonathan?"

"Yes." Grogginess gives way to suspicion. "How did you know? What is this place? Where's Alec?"

_Alec._

Unthinkingly, she reaches out to touch the, now clear, _parabatai_ rune beneath his collar bone. It's strong and powerful beneath her palm, and its vitality reassures her the way nothing else could. "He's alive."

Under the Mark, Jace's heart beats in testimony. "Yes," he breaths, and for a moment, neither of them say anything at all.

**\ /**

She wants to help him sit up, but he has yet to release her hand. So she sits back on her heels and listens to him groan at the effort.

"Where are—"

"This is my home. This is where I grew up."

"Valentine?" The name still pains him.

"He was here three days ago. He might be gone now. Where's Alec?"

Jace seems to hesitate. "I don't know. We were taken by surprise. Jonathan was in the sewers with some of his pet demons. And now I'm here."

She doesn't offer him an explanation. He notices.

"What are you doing here? Was the fortress attacked?"

"No. I left and came here. I have a plan."

He makes an unimpressed noise. "And how's that going?"

"I did it to help end the war. I did it to save Alec."

He says nothing.

"You can let me go now."

Jace's fingers linger on her wrist, circling her pulse as if noticing for the first time. Then his touch is gone.

**\ /**

A servant comes to lead Jace to the room where he will be staying. He offers a few sarcastic remarks but doesn't put up a fight. It must be strange for him to be here, she realizes. Maybe it's completely alien from the house where he grew up. Maybe it's eerily the same. He doesn't tell her anything he's feeling.

Clary wonders what he expects to find here.

**\ /**

She follows the music to the piano room.

She regrets the noise of her cane tapping along the tile floor as she navigates past the door. It disrupts the harmony of notes pouring from the grand instrument, but he doesn't stop playing.

She is familiar with the piece but can't recall the composer. It's one of her father's favorites, and there's distant memory of the melody softly coaxing her from sleep in the middle of the night. Jace plays it differently. He does not command the keys the way Valentine does. Rather he seems to rouse them into empathy and wakefulness. It's beautiful.

She stands and listens to the final crescendo, and when the last note dies, her reason for seeking him out seems unimportant.

"Did he teach you?"

"He tried. I wasn't patient enough."

"You mean _he_ wasn't patient enough."

Clary shrugs. "Probably a little of both."

Jace slides down on the bench. "Sit here."

"Why?"

"Because it's part of my secret plan to maim you."

"No need to keep it secret. We're very open to maiming in this house."

She thinks Jace laughs but can't be certain because the sound is forcibly choked back. All the same, she rests her cane against the side of the piano and takes a seat beside him on the bench.

"And?"

"And play."

"What? Without sheet music?"

"Cute. Now play."

He doesn't sound particularly enthusiastic, but there's a determination that she recognizes. So she sighs, flexes her fingers, and finds Middle C. She begins with a scale, silently counting until the motions give way to memory. Eventually, she feels confident enough to move into a piece she had once tried desperately to master.

"Is that supposed to be Swan Lake?"

"Shut up."

**\ /**

He comes to her in the middle of the night.

Clary can't remember dreaming but knows the moment his hands touch her face that she is being pulled from something fathomless and into the most concrete thing she has ever known.

His name isn't even past her lips before he kisses her. Alec's nose presses against hers, his scent suddenly surrounding her, and she kisses him back even though the breath caught in her chest burns.

She searches his hands and finds familiar scars.

Together they sink sideways, rolling and tangling until she feels the edge of the mattress against her back.

Air becomes essential. "_Alec._"

His breath fans her cheek. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't wait to—"

"I love you," she tells him and touches his face.

"I know." But he sounds relieved, and it makes her want to kiss him again and again and again. So she does.

His jaw is rough with the beginnings of a beard, and she loves the way it scrubs her cheek, leaving her feeling raw and touched. He fists his hands so tightly in her t-shirt that the collar chokes up against her neck, and she likes that feeling, too. He tastes like night air.

When she begins unzipping his jacket, he pulls back.

"We can't."

"Are you angry with me?"

"No. Well, yes. A little. But we have to go."

"Go?"

Alec untangles their bodies, and suddenly his weight is gone. When he speaks, his voice comes quick and quiet from the other side of the room. "You need to get dressed. I need to get Jace." He opens up her closet and starts rummaging inside.

She slides off the bed. "Where are we going?"

He presses a pile of fabric into her hands. Jeans, a bra, a long-sleeved shirt, and socks. "Where's Jace's room?"

"It's the one you stayed in. But where—"

"I'll be right back, okay?"

"Where are we _going_?"

He pauses at the door. His hesitation makes her grip the clothes tightly to her chest. She shuffles forward. "Alec—"

"Jonathan is waiting for us." And then he's gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> If you're reading this it's because you have been blessed with divine patience. So sorry you had to wait this long for an update. I really did expect to get it out much sooner. Life kinda kicked me in the butt. I will do everything within my power to get the next chapter out in a much more timely manner. In the meantime, I'd like to thank you guys for sticking with me. You and your feedback rock my Fraywood world.


	5. Part V

**AN:** Um...better late than never? Right? No? No. Okay.

THANKYOUMAGGIEFORBEINGMYBETA. YOUROCK. THANKYOUGIDGEFORCOACHINGMETHROUGHTHETOUGHSPOTS. YOUDESERVEBETTERTHANTHISTARDINESS.

* * *

><p><strong>Compulsory Butterflies: Part V<strong>

"I'm not going."

"Jace, this isn't a suggestion. We have to leave _now_."

"Why should we? We're at the heart of my fa—Valentine's operation. The perfect place to gather intelligence."

"The Sword isn't here. Our mission was to find it. And since when do you care about 'gathering intelligence'? There's no one here for you to stab."

"If I go with you, do I get to stab Jonathan?"

"I told you—it's complicated. We need him to—"

"What? _Gather intelligence?_"

"You're being difficult on purpose. Why can't you just do as you're told for once?"

"Because you're telling me to run away."

"We're not _running away_. We're following a lead. I know you want to confront Valentine, but Jonathan is the bigger threat."

"Jonathan is nothing but a—"

Clary can't stay quiet a moment longer. It's the middle of the night, they're practically shouting, and no one is making any decisions. "I agree with Jace. I came here to do something, and I'm not leaving until I do it."

"There. Even _she_ agrees—"

"But Alec is right," she cuts him off. "Jonathan is dangerous, and he's up to something—something Father doesn't know about. The two of you should go with him. I'll stay here."

The boys object simultaneously. She ignores Jace and squeezes Alec's hand. "I promise I can handle it, okay? And I managed to find a way out last time. If something happens, I'll come find you. Wherever you are."

"I know you can handle it," Alec's voice rasps, worn thin, "but I need you to come with me."

She knows he's not mad at her—he hates their impossible situation. This secrecy and Jonathan's involvement in their escape make her feel powerless to console him.

Her eyes ache. She wants to cry. She knows she should stay because it's her best chance of finding Jocelyn. But an hour ago, Alec was weeks away, and now he's here, right in front of her, and she wants to follow him, even if it only means she can hold his hand a little bit longer.

Alec tugs at her fingers. "I can get you to your mother."

Clary's mouth falls open. "How did you know?"

"Jonathan. Like I said, he's waiting for us."

**\ /**

She doesn't know what to expect when they step through the portal. Electricity is still crackling in her ears when she feels her boots sink into a plush rug. Contemporary jazz music tinkles from speakers off to her right. Her first breath overwhelms her with the scent of pine and clean cotton. The three of them are alone only for a moment. Jonathan's approaching footsteps land on hardwood floors and bounce off the walls of what must be a spacious room.

"I'm glad Alec could convince you to come."

He isn't talking to her, Clary realizes. The words are directed at Jace. She measures the tension in the room through the pulse in Alec's wrist.

"He's family. I go where he goes," Jace answers. "I imagine family loyalty isn't something you're really into, considering you've been keeping this hideout secret from your Old Man." Jace clicked his tongue at Jonathan. "I have to say, I'm unimpressed with your villainous digs—the place is a little drab. It could use some texture: some bright paint, a few fur pillows, maybe a disco ball. I know a guy who could get you a great price on glitter. He buys it in bulk."

Clary nervously anticipates her brother's livid response. She's never heard someone speak to him the way Jace just did, and she knows Jonathan has killed for less. So when he takes another measured step toward them, she feels goose bumps rise on the back of her neck.

"I know you must not think very highly of me." Jonathan's voice is all regret and understanding, "because you don't understand what's really been going on. But I do appreciate family. It's why I've brought us all together."

"_Us?_" Jace steps forward. Clary feels him pulsing blood-red. "How are you and I _anything_ but two people waiting for the chance to drive swords through each other's chests?"

"Jace, you're my brother. I mean you no harm."

"We are _not _related."

"You and Alec are brothers, but you are not related by blood." Jonathan's calm is like a rope tied in noose around Clary's neck. "I love my sister, and you love Alec, and they love each other. That makes us all family, doesn't it?"

Jace doesn't say a word.

**\ /**

It feels strange when her brother casually directs Clary and Alec toward a single bedroom. Alec guides Clary around the room, allowing her to experience the layout. When they encounter the walk-in closet, he explains that half of it is filled with clothing just her size.

Clary is too cold to change. She tells Alec as much, and he leads her into the bathroom. While holding her hand, he turns on the shower. As the room fills up with warm steam, she sits on the toilet seat. They don't break contact once. She's not sure who's holding on tighter, but neither of them lets go.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

He pushes away the shower curtain and sits on the edge of the tub. They both still have their boots on, and there's not enough floor space for both of their feet. He crosses his legs over hers. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't have a plan."

"Why are we here?" The question sounds loud in the small, humid room.

"It was the only way I could get him to let me see you. I had to promise to help him."

"Help him do what? What does he want?"

"I just promised—"

Clary's entire chest throbs with her next heartbeat. "What _kind_ of promise?"

"All I could think about was getting to you alive."

"Alec, tell me you didn't—" She can't believe she didn't recognize it sooner. Clary places a hand over Alec's chest, and even through two layers of cotton she can feel the raw, steady presence of a new Mark. Its power makes her gasp.

Alec covers her hand with his. "I wish I knew what I'm doing."

**\ /**

She's already half-awake when Jace slips into their room. It's almost dawn, and Clary hasn't gotten any better about sleeping in strange places. Knowing that Jonathan is just down the hall in this strange, teleporting house makes rest impossible.

Alec doesn't suffer from the same insomnia. Clary made sure of that. An hour ago, she gently traced a comatose rune on his arm, and he hadn't fought her on it. Of course, she had promised to give herself one as well. He was asleep within 30 seconds. Clary stays awake in the relative silence.

As Jace pads toward them, Clary reaches for her stele and traces a line through Alec's comatose Rune, nullifying it. She's about to nudge him awake, when Jace throws himself down on the end of the bed, landing on Alec's ankles and startling him awake.

Alec struggles to sit up. "_Whatshappening_."

Clary sighs. "Jace is here. For some reason."

Alec's response is a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"Be glad I came." Jace sprawls across the bed, forcing Clary to back up against the headboard. "Consider it a cautionary tale. What if I'd been Jonathan? I could have slit both of your throats before either of you managed to get a pair of pants on."

Exasperated, Alec throws the blanket aside. "I'm wearing pants. We're both wearing pants."

"Sorry to bring up a touchy subject."

"It's _not_ touchy."

"I think it's the only thing in this bed that _is_."

Clary laces her arm through Alec's. "Is this why you're here, Jace? To make us listen to you talk? I'm sure there's a mirror in your room. I hear they can be almost magical for people like you."

Alec's elbow catches her gently in the ribs; she pretends not to notice. She's too tired and frayed to worry about being nice. Maybe it's not fair to use Jace as a scratching post, but he's the sturdiest person around.

Jace doesn't miss a beat. "Yes, it's too bad _you'll_ never have the benefit of one. If you did, maybe your hair wouldn't be so…well, it wouldn't look like _that_."

"I wish you were Jonathan and that you really had just come in and slit our throats. At least then this conversation would already be over."

"If Jonathan wanted to slit our throats, he would have done it by now." Alec dutifully steers the discussion toward safer ground. "I'm assuming that's why you're here. To talk about Jonathan?"

"I was wondering if you've reconsidered your feelings about me stabbing him." Jace says this so casually it's impossible to think he's anything but serious.

Clary shakes her head. "We can't."

"Is it the fratricide that's putting you off?"

"No,"—although the thought of being an accomplice to her brother's murder makes her gut twist—"you can't kill him because if you do, Alec will die."

For a moment, Jace is silent. For _only_ a moment. "By the angel. What the hell happened in those three days you spent with him? Did you bond over archery? Was there a German dungeon porn marathon with popcorn and Whoppers? Don't tell me you exchanged friendship rings and made pinky promises."

Alec throws his hands up in exasperation, wrenching his armfrom her grasp. "Jesus, Jace. She means it literally. Like my _literal_ death."

"What do you mean?" Jace shifts closer to them, and the new distribution of weight has Clary sinking toward the middle of the mattress and the sudden tightness of Jace's voice. "You did something stupid, didn't you?"

"I took a calculated risk."

"Alec, show him."

**\ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ /**

"Alec, show him."

He really doesn't want to. It isn't that Alec is ashamed of what he did; he just doesn't expect Jace to understand. Wwhen it comes to Clary, Alec is always somewhere between a push and a pull, and there's no use in fighting gravity. He likes having his feet on the ground.

So he lifts the hem of his shirt, and he knows the moment that the Mark is visible because Jace inhales sharply, and the rune warms as if brightening under the attention.

"What is _that_?"

"A Mark Jonathan gave me."

The rune is so red it almost glows. Two circles overlap on the center of his chest—the bold shapes twined together by fine lines that seem to form an unbreakable chain. It hurts Alec to look at it.

"But what does it mean?"

Clary's touch is light on his skin. Her fingertips glide over the lines of the rune. "It's a binding contract. A blood bond. Jonathan has one, too. Can't you feel it, Jace?"

Alec finally meets the gaze of his _parabatai_. Jace looks stunned—too stunned to hide the hurt that briefly crosses his face. "What sort of contract?"

Clary's hand falls away. "It means that their lives are bound. One can't live without the other. If Jonathan dies, so does Alec. And if Alec dies…"

"Is that it? Is that all it does?"

"Is that _all_?" Alec tugs at his hair and falls back against the headboard. "Isn't that enough? Half the world's Shadowhunters want Jonathan dead, including you. The chances of both of us making it through this war alive—"

Jace folds his arms across his chest. "Maybe you should have thought of that before getting matching tattoos with your new boyfriend."

"There's more," Clary interjects hesitantly.

Alec closes his eyes. This is the part he'd heard about only a couple of hours ago, when Clary explained the Mark's full significance.

"Their life force isn't the only thing that could pass through the bond. Things like thoughts and feelings can be shared, too."

Jace stares back at her blankly. "Jonathan doesn't strike me as the type who likes to share his feelings. Not unless they involve killing things or destroying the world. Those feelings he's very vocal about."

"The point—" Clary interrupts, "—is that if Alec is getting bits and pieces of Jonathan's consciousness through the bond, it might become difficult for Alec to distinguish which thoughts are his own, and which are Jonathan's. At least, I think that's how it might work."

Jace crosses his arms, unimpressed. "Great. So if Alec begins experiencing perverse, homicidal desires and starts parting his hair to the left, we'll know that your theory is right."

"Hey, this isn't an exact science, okay?" Clary huffs and tucks her legs under her, rising up onto her knees. "Blood bonds are dangerous and unpredictable. The good news is that the bonded Shadowhunters can't physically hurt each other. So, Jonathan can't threaten suicide, even if he wants to"

This fact doesn't provide Alec with a whole lot of relief; he can tell that Jace shares this sentiment. Jace rolls onto his back and covers his face with his hands. "I don't understand how this is even possible. I've never seen anything like it."

Clary flinches. She drops back on her heels. "It shouldn't be possible. I mean…runes like this aren't meant to be used by people like Jonathan."

"That kind of Mark isn't in the Gray Book. So where the hell did he get it from?"

Alec glances at Clary in time to catch her grimace. He takes her hand. She squeezes back.

She sighs. "He got it from me."

**\ /**

Alec hasn't always seen eye-to-eye with his parents. When he was young, they were strict—bound by the fear of the Clave's retribution. When he was older, they were intolerant—choked by the bitterness of their own failed ambition. And for the last three years, they've been absent—distracted by a narrow ray of light shining through a crack in the ceiling.

For a while, he hated them. He hated them for looking concerned when he came home without bruises on his body or ichor on his shirt. He hated them when his father pushed Jace harder than anyone else he trained. He hated them every time they criticized Isabelle's love life. He hated them for never asking about _his_ love life.

But Alec has never had to make excuses for his parents. They've never raised a hand against him, so he's never had to explain a broken bone. They've never called him a failure, so he's never had to rationalize tough love. They've never manipulated him into believing that love is proven by how much you're willing to suffer for the people you care about.

For the second time, Alec listens to Clary explain how Valentine discovered her gift, when she was seven. One day, he noticed that instead of practicing brail, she was doodling runes in the margins of the paper—runes she had never been exposed to. Valentine gave her a stele, and for a while, she did nothing with it but draw in the dirt. Then, one night, Valentine came to tuck her in and noticed that her white cane wasn't by the bed. He asked her if she'd lost it again. Clary told him that she'd decided to keep it in her notebook from now on. Valentine found a page with a drawing of the cane and an unknown rune in the corner. Clary reached _into_ the drawing, and pulled the cane out.

Valentine was intent on learning what else she could create. When she failed to produce runes on command, he began to dose her with a drought every night before bed. Clary still doesn't know what was in it, but Valentine called it an 'elixir' and promised it would make her stronger. Drinking it gave her intense dreams and nightmares. Sometimes, she would wake up in the middle of the night with Marks burning in her mind, and Valentine would make her sketch all of them into a book. The blood runes were the last ones she saw before she started experiencing seizures as a side-effect of the drug.

Only then did Valentine relent. He stopped forcing her to drink the elixir, sending Clary into weeks of withdrawal where she was too sick to leave her bed. Valentine explained to the seven- year-old that her illness was punishment for her failure to supply the Runes he demanded.

Alec's father is dead, and it feels like a crime. When Valentine dies, it will feel like justice.

**\ /**

The next morning, Jonathan divulges the first few details of his plan over breakfast.

"Father thinks he can save the Nephilim race." Jonathan cuts into a steak that's so rare blood pools across his plate. "What he refuses to acknowledge is that they aren't worth saving. And they're only barely worth killing."

"You shouldn't say such things about yourself." Jace is sitting across the kitchen table. He looks calm, but Alec knows better. "_I_ think you're worth killing."

"I'm no average Nephilim. Neither are you and Clary. And now,"—Jonathan touches his chest, indicating the blood rune concealed beneath his expensive-looking shirt—"neither is Alec."

Alec stabs at his eggs.

Beside him, Clary nibbles on a slice of bacon. She hasn't touched her omelet despite Jonathan's claims that he had it made just the way she likes it. "If you don't want to save the Nephilim and you don't want to kill them," Clary says, "what do you want to do with them?"

Jonathan carefully sets aside his dripping silverware. "I'm going to change them into something more useful. I am going to make them stronger, faster, and completely obedient to us."

"Sounds like enslavement."

Jonathan doesn't disagree. "They're already enslaved. They fight and die to fulfill a heavenly mandate that they never question and that they can never fulfill. When they fight for me, they will win and they will be rewarded."

Jace looks grim. "And how do you plan on managing that?"

The door to the kitchen opens, signaling the entrance of the cook, who's carrying a basket of freshly baked bread. Jonathan takes one of the biscuits and splits it down the middle with a dull butter knife. "Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo."

Alec's out of practice with his Latin, and it takes a moment to translate the phrase. But once he places it in the context of Virgil's _Aeneid_, there is no misunderstanding the nature of Jonathan's intentions.

_If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell._

**\ /**

That night, Jonathan comes to their room long after the sun has set. He is dressed in Shadow Hunter gear, black as the fresh marks drawn over pale skin. Jonathan has Clary's complexion. Alec thinks it might be the only thing they have in common.

Jonathan's smile is dangerous. "Are you ready?"

A shot of awareness travels down Alec's spine. Adrenaline begins to curl its way through his veins the same way it would if he were back in New York, getting ready to go on patrol with Jace and Isabelle. He already feels the phantom weight of a weapon in his hand.

"Where are we going?"

**\ /**

Jonathan leads them down a dark, narrow stairway with stone steps. The air smells of mold and something acrid. Water seems to be leaking down the walls, and at one point, Clary slips in a puddle. Before Alec can steady her, Jace reaches out and snags the back of her jacket. She sways but doesn't tumble forward down the steep incline.

Alec doubts that Jace can make out the grateful look he gives him in the darkness.

Below them the muffled thump of a lethargic bass hums. The lower they climb, the louder the sound gets, the tenser Alec becomes.

Clary shouldn't be here. _None_ of them should be here, but Clary isn't trained to use the dagger tucked inside her jacket. Valentine may have taught his daughter what "sharp" means, but he never taught her how to sink a blade into an assailant—an enemy she can't even see. But apparently Valentine never taught her to run away, either. Or if he had, the lesson never took because Clary insisted on coming out with them tonight. Jonathan was pleased by her willingness.

Alec tried to talk her out of it, but Clary never wavered. With her mouth set into a stubborn line, she told him, "I'm not afraid of the dark."

**\ /**

The stairs eventually lead to a grimy metal door guarded by a werewolf with a tattoo of a rope around his neck. Jonathan hands the man something that looks like a rock. It obviously has some significance to the werewolf, because he opens the door and lets the four of them through without comment.

Inside is wide room with a low ceiling supported by row after row of brick arches. The only light comes from circles cut into the sticky concrete floor. A rainbow of lightbulbs shoot pillars of color into the dusky room, illuminating dense clouds of smoke in magenta and aqua. Patrons sit in groups, bent over low tables and small piles of white powder. Vampires. Werewolves. Warlocks. Faye. They're all here.

The music that pulses through the room isn't the type Alec is used to hearing at Downworlder clubs. It's too slow to dance to. The steady, driving beat causes his ears to throb, so that he can't quite make out the quiet, yawning lyrics.

No one turns to look at them as Jonathan leads them forward through the warren of smoke and bodies.

Beside Alec, Clary chokes. "What _is_ that?"

"Yin fen," Jace supplies. "Among other things."

Jonathan stops beside what appears to be the bar, though there's nothing on tap and none of the amber bottles stacked along the wall are labeled. He drops some cash on the table—liras, because they're in Turkey. "My business contact is skittish," Jonathan says. "Alec and I will meet him alone."

Alec waits for some protest, but both Clary and Jace let the exclusion slide with uncharacteristic stoicism. Jace falls into a high-backed barstool, and Clary gently squeezes Alec's hand before releasing it and reaching for the bar top. "I'll be here."

**\ /**

It's the first time Alec has ever _talked_ to a demon. Of course, he's heard them speak. He's been threatened by a demon more than once. But usually it's in the midst of the battle. Usually the demon is screeching profanities while Alec lands two or three arrows in its hide.

Now Alec is sitting across from a narrow, scaly demon at a corner table in a seedy Downworlder bar in Turkey. His angel blade is sheathed and Alec has to battle the instinct to swing it out and plunge it through one of the demon's wide, owl-like eyes. More than once, Alec's hand jumps, but he's restrained by something he can't quite name. Beside him, Jonathan appears perfectly relaxed.

"Now, Junan, we had a deal." Jonathan's voice is firm, but unconcerned. "I did you a favor, and in return, you will deliver me the _adamas_."

"I don't have it." The demon, Junan, fidgets. "I mean, I don't have it _here_."

"Then where is it?"

"It's someplace safe. My shop in—"

"Alec."

All it takes is his name. One moment, Alec is sitting impatiently still, and the next he finds himself standing on top of the table, seraph blade raised.

The demon's eyes widen until they nearly engulf his entire face. "There are wards! You'll need me to—"

The path of Alec's blade is a wide arc that severs the demon's neck in a single pass. The spray of ichor earns some scowls from a couple of nearby Ifrits. Others laugh jubilantly, cupping their hands as if catching raindrops. A Faye waitress reaches for the wallet the demon left behind.

Alec sheathes his blade. He frowns down at the mess of ichor staining the leather couch where the demon was sitting. He does not recall deciding to leap atop the table, and he quickly jumps down, joining Jonathan, who is already making his way back through the throng of Downworlders. "So this was just a waste of time."

"I never waste time." Jonathan holds out a hand to the pilfering waitress. She smiles, a deadly flash of razor teeth that's intended to be seductive. As she places the wallet in his palm, Jonathan's answering smirk is just as sharp. "We know where the _adamas_ is, and we tied up a loose end."

_We_ know where it is. _We_ tied up loose ends.

Alec looks back at the bar, where they left Jace and Clary. Clary is sitting now, and Jace has scooted his stool closer so that the two of them can talk privately. They would almost look friendly—if Jace weren't scowling so noticeably. Alec can guess what they're talking about.

"They won't find a way to break the bond."

Alec whips around to find Jonathan watching him knowingly.

"Not even Clary has the power to unmake runes," Jonathan continues. He speaks with unconcerned certainty. "And you wouldn't want them to break the bond, anyway. It's the only thing keeping me from killing you."

Alec looks away. Even from this distance, he can make out the dusting of freckles across Clary's bare shoulders. "No," he says, "not the only thing."

_She looks beautiful tonight._

He's not sure where the thought comes from. It doesn't feel like it belongs to him at all. It's too simple—too understated. Certain parts of Clary may be beautiful, but taken as a whole, she's more than that. She's—

Jonathan stares at him. "We want the same things, Alec."

**\ /**

There is a combat training room, fully stocked with weapons, in (the west wing) of Jonathan's endless house. . Jonathan encourages all of them to use it in order to stay sharp. One afternoon, while Jonathan is out on an unknown errand, the three of them convene there. Jace walks around, taking note of the weapons at their disposal. Clary stands in the middle of the room, looking nervous and not touching anything. Alec sits on a sparring mat.

"We have to get word to the resistance." Alec tracks Jace's movements around the room. "They need to know that Jonathan has gotten his hands on raw _adamas_ and that he plans on making a second Mortal Cup."

"Telling them that would be pointless." Jace sounds bored. Or he's pretending not to be impressed by the craftsmanship of Jonathan's scimitar collection. "They already know Valentine is trying to get _his_ hands on the real Mortal Cup. What good would it do for them to worry about a second one? They're already doing everything they can. We're the ones in a position to actually do something about it."

"Do what?" Clary turns in a slow circle. "He can't make a cup without an Iron Sister to work the _adamas_. We aren't anywhere near the Adamant Citadel, so I don't know what we're doing here in Venice."

"I would suggest sight-seeing,"—Jace runs a finger over the curve of a hulking axe—"but that wouldn't be very exciting for Clary, would it?"

Clary ignores him. "Alec, the night you came for us, you said you could help me get to Jocelyn."

"Well, Jonathan knows where she is. He didn't tell me where exactly. He might take you to see her if you asked, but I'm not sure now's a good time for that." Alec stands and crosses to Clary's side. He takes her hand and brings it to his cheek. Her skin is clammy. "I know you want to see your mom, and I promise you _will_. But Valentine has her under tight security, and it could be dangerous now that Valentine is looking out for any move we might make."

"Of course," Jace continues, "I could always describe the sights to you. That could be exciting. I've often been told that my voice is so smooth and pleasurable that it _arouses_ immediate interest in anything I have to say. I once caused a faerie to orgasm simply by reading from the book of Psalms."

"By "we" you mean us, and Jonathan."

"Well, yeah. I mean, we're working with him now. We're _pretending_ to."

"Right."

Jace circles toward them. "That would be pleasant, wouldn't it? I could regale you with tales of the greed and bloodshed which mark the histories of this city's great monuments. It would be a divine experience. I'm half tempted to regale myself."

**\ /**

"I heard you fucking my sister last night."

Alec freezes halfway down the stairs. Below him, Jonathan is sitting in living room, a book in his lap. He carefully turns a yellowed page.

Alec doesn't know what to say.

"Don't look so horrified. It's hardly a secret."

Slowly, Alec finishes descending the steps, certain that the ground will give beneath him at any moment. "It really isn't any of your business."

Jonathan closes the book. "Of course it is. It's why I brought you home in the first place. So that you could fuck her. Because it's what she needs." He rises to his feet, the motion effortless and subtle, as if he were merely shifting his weight to another foot. "If I hadn't picked you, it would be some other man in there fucking her. And she'd still be here, with me."

Alec tries not to react under Jonathan's calculating stare. But Alec isn't Jace; he doesn't know how to push his fury down, to focus it into a point so small it can fit into a single ironic comment. His entire body feels hot and shapeless.

Jonathan continues to watch him. "That makes you angry, doesn't it?"

"What do you want from me?"

"Let's go for a walk."

"Jace and Clary?"

"They'll be fine. We won't be gone long."

**\ /**

All of the lights in the house are off, only darkness streams in through the windows. Alec stumbles inside the front door, catching himself on a sofa in the living room. He jars his knee against an end table and almost falls as he hurries up the stairs. When he finds Jace's door, he doesn't even have to knock before it swings open and reveals his _parabatai_.

Jace is carefully expressionless. "You and Jonathan were gone all day."

Alec can't find his voice. It feels caught somewhere in his head, spinning around amongst the events of the last 12 hours. He can hardly breathe. "We…I…"

Wordlessly, Alec raises his hands. The dim light from Jace's bedroom reveals the patchwork of red stains that discolor his fingers, the dark pulp beneath his nails. The cuffs of his ivory sweater are crusted and brown, and a sliced sleeve reveals even more dried blood.

Jace's indifference falls away. He reaches out. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"No—"

"Clary?"

"No. I—"

"Alec—"

The sound of his own name breaks the dam. "We were at a house. An Iron Sister's house. She didn't live there, but she was there, just temporarily. I think she was being threatened, or maybe Jonathan was bribing her. I'm not sure. But she was talking to Jonathan as if they knew each other. She was upset. He must have given her the _adamas_. I don't know how we didn't notice. He didn't tell us. I didn't know. He keeps things from me. _Somehow_. And I—"

"_Alec_." Jace's hands are like vices on Alec's shoulders. His eyes are lit, burning. "What did Jonathan do? What did _you_ do?"

Alec is caught under his brother's scrutiny. "I—I killed her."

Jace's hold relaxes. He exhales. The tone of his voice turns sympathetic. "Alec, you did what you had to. If she had used the _adamas_ to create a second cup…"

"No, Jace! I _killed_ her!" Alec can't contain his ferocity, his self-loathing. "She'd already made the cup. And Jonathan wanted to tie up any loose ends. He told me to kill her, and I did it. I drove a sword through her chest. I _wanted_ to."

Jace falls back a half-step. Alec can tell he's trying to bury his reaction, to disguise his shock. But Alec sees the flicker of fear.

"Alec, where's Jonathan? Does he have the cup?"

"I want you to swear something." Alec steps toward Jace until they are nearly touching. "I want you to swear that no matter what happens, you'll protect Clary."

"What are you—"

"Protect her from Jonathan. And protect her from me."

Jace has gone completely still. "You wouldn't hurt her."

"Swear it."

There are several moments of silence, then, "I swear by the Angel to protect her."

Footsteps approach from the hallway. Clary appears in the darkness, dressed for bed, hand-pressed to the wall.

"What's going on?"

**\ /**

"What if it gets worse?"

Jonathan never allows all three of them to leave the house at once without his supervision. He figures that so long as one of them is in his custody, the other two will be forced to return. He's right, of course.

So Alec and Clary are alone, sitting outside of a pub in Edinburgh. They're not far from the Royal Mile, and Edinburgh Castle rises in the distance like an old, ancient gate to the heavens.

Clary picks at the seam of her jeans. "How do you mean?"

"What if he makes me want to do something worse?" And that is the part Alec has the most trouble reconciling. Jonathan did not force him to kill that woman against his will. Alec had agreed with him. He had seen the need, felt the logical pull when he drew his blade. The horror and disbelief set in only after he and Jonathan left the house, walking side-by-side down the street.

Clary remains silent. She takes the mug of cider from Alec's hand and sips. It doesn't taste good to Alec, and it makes Clary wrinkle her nose.

Alec accepts the mug back. "Jonathan has a cup for the ritual. Now he just needs the right time and the right place."

"And Lilith's blood."

"And Shadowhunters."

Clary sighs. "He _has_ Shadowhunters."

This startles Alec. He has never considered the possibility that Jonathan would make any of them drink from his Infernal Cup. But, of course, it should have occurred to him. It should have been one of his first concerns when Jonathan revealed his plan. Even now Alec can't muster the dread he ought to feel at the thought. Because a part of him can't believe that Jonathan would ever do that to him—or Jace, or Clary.

Alec feels nauseous.

"Clary?"

"Hm?"

"If we can't stop him soon, if the pieces don't start falling our way, we might have to do something more drastic. We can't bide our time forever"

"Something drastic?"

"Jonathan is twice as vulnerable as you or Jace. He has two hearts."

Clary pushes to her feet. Her expression is cold. She's restless, pacing in place. Alec wants to reach out and steady her. But her skin is white, so white he's afraid a touch will burn him.

She smacks her cane against the side of the bench. "I'm not killing you. And neither is Jace."

"It might be the only option."

"No."

"Jace will do what he has to. He's sworn an oath."

"Well, I haven't. I haven't sworn anything to the Clave. I don't care about them. I care about you. If Jonathan has to die, then we'll find a way to get rid of the blood bond first."

"Something you've said is impossible."

"And you forget that Jace has made an oath as your _parabatai_. He'll fight to the death for you. The same way I will. So _stop_ giving up."

Jace has made a lot of promises.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> I've held on to this chapter for a month because I knew I wouldn't have time to work on the next chapter over the holidays. But now the next chapter is well underway.

STOP GIVING ME DOUBTFUL LOOKS.

My New Year's resolution is to schedule weekly time to write. I'm gonna make it happen. And I will keep writing this story as long as at least one person (*cough*maggie*cough*) is still reading it. Or, you know, until the story ends.

VIVA LA FRAYWOOD


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